Yesterday
was the first day
I failed to write
a poem
after promising
to do it.

It is a small thing,
really.
No one to care
or be disappointed
but me.

And yet I cannot seem
to let it go.
It is a hole
in a perfect, steady
pattern,
and you know
how much I like
to be
perfect.

Except poetry
has always been for me
the absence
of expectation,
unrestricted sentiment,
a gentle gift
I give myself
to just be.

It makes me wonder
if maybe perfection
is what disrupts
goodness.

And maybe holes just
let things breathe.