As it turned out, I had two poems accepted yesterday, at two different journals. But my lucky Friday isn't quite taking the edge off the horrible early-morning dream I just woke up from, in which I was summoned to a hotel in Amsterdam to stand at the deathbed of one of my oldest friends. Now I'm sitting on my grey couch, with my cup and saucer, trying to recover from the grief of a death that hasn't happened, in a place I've never been. The subconscious can be cruel.

Outside, a pair of cardinals is singing, and the dry grass shimmers in first light. We need rain so badly. I've got some fall sowing to do today: cilantro, radishes, that sort of thing. And I should mow the brittle grass and tear out the weeds along the curb.

I had another day alone yesterday, and I worked on a revision. Slowly, slowly, I'm trying to reinstate myself as a poet in my own life.