No fiddleheads for me today, however. I'm off to Farmington again for another poetry-reading round at Beloit. We are all sad because Marion Stocking, who has been the journal's mainstay since the 50s, is very, very ill. It will be hard to choose poems for the journal without the sight of her happy face.
But the good news is that my husband and I are all of a sudden madly in love. Isn't it funny how that happens: how the routine scales fall from your eyes, and there you are again?