They look like musical notes, a friend comments on Instagram. Raindrops on the Charles this morning, and I have to take trails around all the places the river has swelled its banks. It’s still and quiet, mostly, and I breathe deeply, into my belly, focusing on each step through the muck, over the branches and leaves, into the new day. I am grateful to slow down. I did not get a ticket for speeding. So, I am remembering this morning: go slow. And that’s how I feel. Tired and slow. The ferns in all their funny furled/unfurling shapes make me smile. Last night I got a proof from a literary journal that is publishing one of my pictures: from last spring, or the spring before? I can’t remember, but it’s a fern, a beautiful wet ball of fern. Perfect for a spring issue of their journal. I am satisfied with the feedback on my poem last night, because I can really see the issues of craft I must work out. I trust I will work them out. I really like this poem; it’s a hybrid, and it actually might become prose as it finds its shape. I am grateful for listeners who praised it and also weren’t satisfied. Last night, perhaps I didn’t entirely agree; but in the light of this day I see so much more clearly. And tonight, after a day of working on my computer, my youngest asks for a walk. Now, the sky is clear, and it’s cool, but it’s a very lovely early evening. I suggest we skip the woods and drive to the meadow and I’m so glad we did. In the wide open, I see all the hardwoods in bloom under purple clouds - so many flowering trees and no mud! All the rain is greening the grass. We walk happily with the dogs in the purple evening of a lovely spring day. April 30. Of course, this day never passes without a thought of KJC, sweet boy I was lucky to know and remember.
