Reviewing my past writings,
I see that three years ago,
in one of my last spurts
before I stopped writing poetry
prior to the pandemic
I played the prophet,
claiming it would get better
and that creativity would come again
and “eventually
it won’t be as hard as this,
I hope.”

It seems like the future
I predicted has arrived.

I guess the odds were good for it all along.
Each other time I have run dry,
it has gotten better.

Of course, it’s safe to assume
that I’ll run dry again
but it’ll be harder for that to happen
if I continue to exercise the muscles
and stay in fecund arenas.

“Remain among the creators
and you’ll more likely be creative,”
is what past me could say to future me
if I next have trouble.
Of course, past me never said it,
so I suppose future me will have to say it
to future-future me.

That’ll make sense, I’m sure,
at the time.