The poem is nine pages long, and it's not done yet. In between mowing five acres of grass in the rain, I managed to write two more sections yesterday. Funny how "in the zone" doesn't have to mean "writing at this very moment" so long as my thoughts remain trapped in the poem's fog. While I was shoving the mower up and down hills and over roots and into rocks and along the edges of gardens, I thought about what might happen next in the poem, weighed options, tied up loose ends. Everything seemed challenging yet manageable, like I was running a long-distance race that I was sure to finish. This morning I still feel confident that I'll finish the race, though I am trying very hard not to worry about everything else I'm ignoring.

Don't forget to pick up the children at school, don't forget to pick up the children at school, don't forget to pick up the children at school. . . .