Yesterday, for the first time in months, I was able to spend a bit of time with my own poetry projects. I copied out some of Dante's Inferno. I stirred a sloppy little draft. I didn't accomplish much, but I felt awkward and refreshed. Afterward I went for two long walks and finished raking mulch off the garden beds. I had the sense that someone had poured a batch of new blood into my veins--garden-wise, poetry-wise. Everything was bare and muddy; the wind whipped and sang, and I lifted my nose into it like a bird dog.