Hat. Gloves. Boots. Coat. Into the morning, to the river, to the bridge, but it isn’t Longboat Pass. It’s Death Bridge, over the Charles, my view from our trees. It’s muddy on shore. In theory, it’s spring. Mostly, it’s shades of brown, except for sky. My fingers are numb, my phone battery keeps dying. I trip over a broken branch in the path and Suzi’s hind quarters break my fall. The landscape feels brittle. We keep going. Twice I climb the steep hill; Florida is so flat, I work at the hills. I dream of lady slippers lining the trail. Indoors, I thaw. I’m tired, it’s Tuesday, morning after my writing group, home late, up early. And I’m digesting the comments about my post card poems, feeling disquieted. Trying to make sense of how to solve the problems raised, and I wonder if I should give up, because I don’t see solutions to flaws. There are flaws. I see them now. After working on other things, I close my eyes for a quick nap. In the liminal space, I’m digesting, digesting. . . I wake from my catnap, open the file, and I see what I can try, it might be a solution. I copy the file, save it as “experiment.” It seems to be working. When I’m done making changes, I’m feeling hopeful, my mood is brighter. I think it’s working. I look at the weather suggesting flakes of snow in the morning tomorrow. I cannot find photos that are feeding me. But the poem that I thought my be dying is being renewed.