I spent yesterday morning working on a sloppy, unfocused poem draft that I somehow managed to pull into coherence in a way that surprised me. It was a satisfying morning's work, followed by an afternoon of canning, and then a long walk through the neighborhood woods and into the cemetery.

Today I have to go back to editing, but it feels good to have that poem waiting for me in its new dress.

And the garden is singing its high-summer song. I picked the first okra last night, sliced them up, and fried them in cornmeal. Peppers and eggplant and cucumbers are fattening. Cherry tomatoes are gilding. The sunflowers are opening; dahlias are bright.