Better late than never. After two weeks of opportunity in which I barely wrote, I have, in these last few days of freedom, fallen straight down the rabbit hole. Books are splayed open all over my desk . . . the poems of Tennyson, the poems of Dickinson, the OED. On my laptop I've got tabs open to Britannia's 1911 explications of archaic bird names such as "throstle-cock" and "lintwhite"; to The Exeter Book, a codex of Old English poetry; to the biography of Marguerite Henry, author of Misty of Chincoteague . . . The poem is five pages long and just beginning . . . the poem is a miscellany and a pastiche and an invention and a memoir. It is very exciting. It is a giant mess.

I'm trying to keep up with other things too--notably, spreading the word about the Conference on Poetry and Learning at Monson Arts. If you know teachers or other community builders who would benefit from this close, collegial week, please spread the word. Scholarships are available, and you don't have to be a teacher to qualify. Need and eagerness are good-enough reasons. We want you there.

Today I'll have to tear myself away from my desk--do some grocery shopping, do some housework. I'll probably go out to write tonight, not that I need any prompting at the moment but it will be nice to see people.

I am so relieved to be a writer again.