A Pome a Day for a Year

I officially have two hundred and sixty five pomes
under my belt,
and I sort of cannot quite entertain
the notion of numbers
that equal what is sitting above.

One hundred left and then what?
This has been a big part
of the mornings, and evenings
when LVG reads and chuckles
or asks where my mind has been
to write certain passages.

I loose this juice, but to tell the truth
the prose is not flowing
with as much pressure as I would
have hoped and the tides are
low, stemmed by beaches full of
self doubt.

I read the words
that tumbled out, and the stakes
form larger scrutiny than ever before,
the barrier higher,
quality control more stringent,
and I retreat
to the pomes of freedom.