I've been kind of overwhelmed by the comments on my poem "Late April" . . . very sweet online praise by the august likes of Laure-Anne Bosselaar, Richard Hoffman, and Syd Lea, plus loving notes from friends. It is such a little poem. The original draft was so much longer, but I couldn't seem to juggle anything more than this small simple moment. As I was revising, I kept wondering what I was doing wrong. It was a classic case of second-guessing myself: I kept paring the drafts down, and kept kicking myself for paring the drafts down.

Well, one never knows.

* * *

T got home at about 8:30 last night, tired but cheerful, though this morning he is dragging. A vacation to Brooklyn is always an exhaustion. The friend we stay with owns a bar and keeps very late hours, and it is all too easy to get sucked into his ways. Fortunately for T, I'm going out to my workshop group tonight, so he can sleep on the couch all evening without feeling antisocial.

I've got another slowish work day ahead of me--editing and other desk things, laundry on the line, an exercise session, planting and transplanting, maybe a first stab at some spring cleaning, maybe washing the central Maine dirt roads off my car . . . we'll see what transpires. It's a mosey-along schedule, and I'm glad to have it.

And glad to have T back home. There is nothing like meeting the one you love at a bus station and watching his face light up at the sight of you.  Lucky, lucky, lucky.