Today will be sunny but cold, with the last blue sky we'll see for a while: there's a week of spring rain ahead. I woke up late again, after 6, but still got downstairs before the cat, who has fallen in love with dorm life and now spends considerable time in the college boy's bed. Yesterday he hung out with Paul's friends, flirting into the camera as the kids Zoom-chattered and expostulated and compared quarantine notes. He is entirely delighted with the turn of events.

I finished raking flowerbeds. Crocuses are coming up in places I've never seen them before, especially in the side yard that divides our driveway from the neighbors'. That strip of land was an overgrown mess, and still needs considerable work. For the past two gardening seasons I've mostly focused on keeping the weeds trimmed, while slowly, using heaps of composted maple leaves, creating new beds planted with lilies and iris, which should eventually spread and serve as weed control. In the meantime, however, bits of someone else's long-ago garden are reemerging, probably because my trimming regimen has allowed dormant bulbs to gain some traction again. So there they are: specks of brightness against the leafmold--pale yellow, dark yellow, cream, deep violet, lavender.

Meanwhile, Tom rode his bike to the hardware store, where he bought me some new garden gloves and the fittings for his compressor. I wrote some letters to friends. I received a note, from my mentor Baron Wormser. He'd asked me to send him some recent work, and then celebrated the two poems I shared in a way that made me weep. He talked about their "muscularity," their "physical clang," the beauty of their endings. I share my pleasure in his words with considerable embarrassment because, to paraphrase Alice Munro, "who do I think I am anyway?" But Baron's recognition of the physicality in these pieces is a happiness to me. I've been trying so hard to create poems that are there: that aren't only cerebral or emotional explorations but elbow themselves into a time and a place. I'm not sure why this matters so much to me, but it does.

Anyway: The happiness of having a reader of his caliber. The happiness of unexpected crocuses. Two good things about yesterday.

Today I'll mostly be housecleaning--dusting, vacuuming, mopping, scouring bathrooms--and continuing on to the next stage of my giant mending project. Maybe I'll be able to squeeze in a bike ride among the encroaching chores.  Cafe Quarantine is serving brisket and potatoes tonight, along with home-canned pickles and a salad of roasted Brussels sprouts and grated kohlrabi. I expect you've noticed that my root vegetables are beginning to repeat, but I am working on creating a variety of combinations. We've also got plenty of  leftover olive-oil cake, which I'll top with a touch of maple-sweetened Greek yogurt.

I haven't shared a poem with you lately. So here's one, from Chestnut Ridge, that was triggered by obituary language in the era of the Spanish flu. It's not uplifting, so don't read it if you're already overwhelmed. On the other hand, you could think of it as a small paean to the forgotten. When I wrote it, I certainly had the sense of being the only mourner these people had left.

Daily Courier

            1918

Influenza resulted in the loss

of Raymond A., 18 years, residing

in Dunbar until this morning.

Also Miss Grace B. age 15, of Liberty,

died early Thursday, as did David C.,

age 1 year, of North Union Township.

Mary D., small daughter, will be

interred in the Greek Cemetery.

Miss Ora E., spinster, died at her home;

likewise Mrs. Ada F., her husband

being located there with a sawmill.

Dr. Tobias G., Worshipful Master

of King Solomon’s Lodge No. 346,

now sings with the angels. On Tuesday

patient H. smiled before expiring.

Tax collector Lewis I. has lost his infant boy.

David K., president of Pioneer Gas,

rose to be with His Lord.

Cecil L., 13 years old, died after a brief illness.

Joseph M., miner (age unknown), collapsed.

Felix N., bachelor, age 35, perished

at the emergency hospital. The funeral

of Mrs. Catherine O. is open to all friends

tomorrow morning at 11 o’clock.

Mrs. Anna P., a young bride, has left us.

William Q., 15 years old, of So. Connellsville,

died peacefully last night. His father, John Q.,

died two weeks ago of the same malady.

Mrs. Marguerita R., 26 years of age,

is now among the elect,

though one of her sons survives.

Robert S., a well-known farmer,

crossed over this morning, as did Eli T.,

who fought at the Battle of Gettysburg

and was a pit boss. Mrs. Mary U.,

age 18, relapsed after a brief recovery.

Mrs. Nancy V., age 80, had a long life

cut short. Melvin W., infant,

slumbers in the loving arms of Jesus.

Frank X., 52 years old and born in Italy,

has left a widow and a family of children.

Rev. Charles Y. served as our priest for 16 years,

which a few may recall.

In related news,

Lieut. Arthur Z., age 23, late of Uniontown,

succumbed to his wounds.

[from Chestnut Ridge (Deerbrook Editions, 2019)]