A place at the table

Is this the beginning?

I want to write a poem but what do I say? I have nothing to add to the conversation. No springtime celebratory words. No weather reports of approaching thunderstorms with dangerous lightning and high wind. I seem to have forgotten how to feel the inner joy of writing a tragic poem. Writing artful words plays perhaps within the top 4 or 3 or 2 favorite things to do each day forever. The land that I play on is dry. No sprouts of words or paraphrase. No droplets of iambic pentameter falling into a couplet or two. Dairy Hollow I'm coming to you. Save a place for me at the table. Feed me and give me rest, but please, expect nothing.