My Excuse

Look at this gap: one sonnet since October!
People must think I've lost my zest for life,
Or maybe spent the last two months not sober,
Staring at the dull blade of a knife.
Not so. My mother died, and, overcome,
I haven't written sonnets in six weeks,
Exploring this new territory: dumb
And overwhelmed when anybody speaks.
It isn't my emotions, but the work:
The hordes of people to be notified,
Official forms to fill, with every clerk
As humble as an ordinary bride.
Today I've written something. This won't last,
But maybe something will, grim and aghast.