The central Maine mud-season artist surrounded by his prints.

Interestingly, I have not written or revised a single poem since Tom left on Sunday. Even more interestingly, I have not had the urge to write or revise. What I've wanted to do is read and read and read and read. 

When it comes to writing, I am not a natural procrastinator. Moreover, for the past year or so, the poems have been pouring out of me. Open the faucet, and a poem splashes into the sink.  So right now I feel no anxiety about writing or not writing; I'm willing to roll with what's happening, which is that I am reading like crazy, and I'm tending my nest, and I'm readjusting my relationship with time. All of these occupations are very absorbing, though I don't know why. The house is as clean as a whistle. The books are stacked on the coffee table. And time has slowed down. I linger over everything I do. There is no hurry. There is no hurry at all.

Yesterday afternoon I went out to teach. Today I'll be home all day, working on some desk things and then trailing back into my reading obsession. I do wonder if all of this reading will lead to writing. It usually does, though I'm not yet sensing a portal. I feel like a child devouring any old printed matter, just for the joy of language. And the greed is so intensely sensual. Perhaps the magic is to be 57 years old and still fully able to tumble into the hole of words.