Yesterday, by odd coincidence, I received two reviews of A Poet's Sourcebook, one by an anonymous Amazon reader, the other posted on Poets' Quarterly, an online review journal. Both reviewers seemed to like the book, and neither one is an acquaintance, so I'm pleased.
This morning I'm undergoing an interview for a forthcoming CavanKerry Press podcast, and then I will turn my thoughts to lawn mowing. My yard and garden, like the rest of the yards and gardens of northern New England, are slug-draped and unruly. I will never regain control of the weeds. Ah, well. On the bright side, my raspberry bushes are loaded with green berries, the tiger lilies are waving bravely from the roadside ditches, the delphiniums are as blue as eyes, and Terry at the garage finally solved the brake problem in my car. Also, last night, at band practice, we played like angels . . . which isn't to claim that we sounded like angels, only that we heard each other in an intense and rapid and delicate way. Playing in an ensemble can feel like magic; it really can.