. . . and just that like, we're back to slow rain and 49 degrees.

But the garden looks pretty happy, after an all-night soaking, and I'm pretty happy to be swathed in my snug bathrobe, drinking hot coffee and listening to water drip off the roof. I slept till after 6 today, which is exceedingly late for me, and I have nothing pressing to do, other than feed the neighbor's cat and read the poems of John Donne.

Yesterday's writing retreat turned out to be magnificent. Almost as soon as I settled myself into my chair and began reading through my stack, an idea rose into my mind . . . a calendar, a book of hours. What if I organized sets of poems into months, allowing each set to move nonchronologically through time and intention, so that the year would be a structure but history and imagination would be fluid?

This may or may not be the form I eventually settle on, but yesterday it made complete sense, and I spent hours organizing and slightly rewriting to work the pieces into that circle. It wasn't difficult to do: I have been writing so steadily that the seasonal shift is naturally evident in most of the poems. Yet because I'm constantly bumping historical invention against omniscient imagination against diary-like first-person speaker, I needed to find a way to make those shifts resonate with one another . . . and maybe this will be the key.

Whatever transpires, I am relieved and excited to have finally entered into full engagement with the task. And a rainy day is perfect encouragement for the project.