The lilacs are on the edge of bloom. The last few daffodils and tulips are fading, and the iris are beginning to bud. The grass is speckled with violets and wild strawberry flowers. If only it would rain--but all we have is fog. The garden soil is as dry as talc.

The old dog had another restless night, so I am tired. On the bright side, I did learn to make Vietnamese spring rolls yesterday, and taught a class of happy excited middle schoolers, and wore sandals, and listened to a baseball game with my son, and sat on the stoop with the cat. Small nothings that are something.

In Portland, the fog rolls in from the bay. The air smells of salt and fish and cars and restaurant exhaust. In Harmony, the fog rises from the lowlands, and the air smells of cut pine trees and diesel. I suppose I will still be sitting at a kitchen table, somewhere, at this time next year. I suppose I will still be drinking coffee and wearing my red bathrobe and thinking of poems.

Small nothings that are something.

The future is a fog rolling in from the bay. It is the scent of lilacs in a jar on my table. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder . . . there is nothing else I can do.