I'm fighting the writing letdown, trying to keep myself preoccupied with editing and anthology making and gardening and boy projects, but of course the gloom of not writing keeps creeping through the cracks. The poem is done. Maybe I'll never write another one.

But the sun is shining again, for the second day in a row, and the rose-breasted grosbeaks are making a racket in the apple tree. Yesterday I planted dahlias and brussels sprouts. Today I will plant nettles and mow grass and invent some sort of giant room-temperature salad ready for whichever family members show up in the kitchen at whatever time. Tom is roofing, James has a track meet, Paul has baseball practice, but Dawn is making salad and not writing a poem anymore.

Here's what will be in the salad: sauteed chopped nettles from my friend Steve's garden in the woods; couscous; diced tomatoes from the store; steamed asparagus from my thriving new patch; green onions from my garden; baby arugula from my greenhouse; infant spinach thinned from my garden; possibly some tuna from a can or possibly some homemade sausage from my freezer. Etc. (which means "also some other stuff I haven't thought of yet").

If you would like to know more about handling and eating nettles, look here.