Yesterday was the first day of spring chores. I spent an hour or so in the afternoon picking up sticks, then pruned rosebushes, the clematis vine, and the little summersweet shrubs. Today it's supposed to rain, but if it doesn't, I'll do some raking. It felt so good to be outside, peering under leaves, checking on new growth, celebrating how much the crocuses have spread in the backyard, worrying a little about the garden near the cut-down tree, which was rather trampled by arborists. I love, love, love spring gardening. Every day is a new excitement.

Today, back to ye olde desk, but tonight, instead of going to my poetry salon, I'm going to the opening of T's photo show, at Cove Street Arts, here in Portland. His pieces are all studio portraits of trash he picked out of our roadside ditch in Harmony. I find them very beautiful and often comic and always sad and ominous. 

Otherwise, what have I been doing? Trying to reacclimate myself to home, fiddling with a poem draft, fretting about the obligations of national poetry month, reading Lincoln in the Bardo and feeling intensely sad, listening to spring-training baseball while making curry, wishing wishing wishing in a heartstring kind of way . . . wishing.