Good morning from the beautiful window.

I'm heading up north this afternoon for a St. Patrick's Day gig tonight in Dover-Foxcroft. In the meantime, I have a day to myself . . . no editing, no shopping, no laundry. Last night Tom and I walked to the library, where I took out three more Vietnam-related books. I'm hoping that at least one will lead me forward. I also did some writing yesterday--the beginning of a hybrid poetry-prose draft styled in the form of a Google search. I don't think I'll maintain that structure in the long run, but it does work as an organizational strategy.

In the past week, I've gotten three separate batches of poems accepted for publication, plus been invited to do a reading. I've worked on an academic book about poetry, copyedited a forthcoming poetry manuscript, and been invited to submit my own. I know this moment is fleeting and illusory, but I do have a sense of settling down, settling into. It's been almost a year, now, since my whole moving ordeal began, and it's not over yet: Tom and I still have to make a decision about where we'll be going next.

I can't say I feel at home. But I'm not crying anymore. So that's a start.