Yet another exercise in iambic pentameter, after a long soak in epsom salts. Advance, advance, retreat, retreat, advance. If only I could somehow learn the rhythm, Then maybe I could one day learn this art. How many years of practice will it take Before my verse takes flight into the skies? But I, you say, belong upon the ground, Not soaring through the air like Peter Pan. Something more age-appropriate becomes A woman of my stature; not this, not Verse : clumsy, inelegant, a-wandering From one thought to another. Point on target. Should I not try e'en though I'm past the age For whimsy? Teen-agers alone may be Forgiven dreaming; adults like me should Know their place. I don't, too bad! I'm here, trying Despite my years. I promise, tomorrow's Poem will be better. Just give me time. Retreat, advance, advance, retreat, attack!