This afternoon I'll be motoring down to the University of Maine at Augusta to lead a poetry workshop for high school teachers, with a public reading to follow in the evening. [Tomorrow afternoon poet Richard Blanco reads. Here's a schedule, if you're interested in the timing of everything.]
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Last night's driving wind and rain have dissipated, and this morning's new world is brown and muddy and dripping. In April, every day is a different season.
Last night I dreamt of grocery shopping and dog food. What does this mean?
A shimmer of sun gilds the glass swan in the kitchen window. I want to wear my new rose-colored blouse today. I want the sound of a baseball game to comfort my shadowy drive home.
Flocks of little birds--juncos, sparrows, goldfinches--rise and settle and and swirl and rise . . . in the grass, in the pines, in the bare lilacs. If I could, I would write a poem.