In a cool spring the tulips stay crisp and sharp for a long time. I planted a lot of bulbs last fall, and most of them seem to have survived the squirrels. And in the gardens I'm resurrecting along the driveway, tulips squelched by years of neglect are suddenly appearing. Not all will bloom this spring, but their leaves are a sign of hope.

Today I'm teaching in the morning, but the rest of the day belongs to me. It's been months since I've had a long stretch of unstructured alone time, and yesterday's poem experiments felt like being six years old and eating candy before breakfast--greedy, joyous, and illicit. I've got a stack of editing on the way, so I'd best hurry up and gobble as much sugar as I can before the manuscripts arrive.