I've been mulling over a new research project: a delve into the archives of a few local, more or less unknown writers in hopes of developing an imaginative response to their creative lives. I'm thinking of the project as an extension of a small poem I wrote a couple of years ago, the one titled "Disappointed Women." It's going to have to be a slow project, as I won't have much time to loaf around in the library that holds these materials. But there's no rush either. And the project may morph into something else altogether. Who knows?

Anyway, I'm enjoying the sensation of a new mystery.

Today will be cool and sunny, and Tom and I are going on a gravel-shopping date after work. He has gotten just as interested in our little courtyard as I have, and has decided that we can afford some gravel to finish the groundwork. Such is middle-aged romance: an evening spent studying bags of rocks at Lowes. I can hardly wait.