The storm blew itself out, and the day became watery and mild. In the weak sunlight I walked in the cemetery with a friend. At home I emptied stove ashes into the outdoor can; I hauled groceries into the kitchen; I watched the cat prowl among the wet leaves.

And now it's Thursday. The week is trickling to a close, and I sit here, with a cup of coffee and a small headache, considering housework, desk work, violin practice, my checklist of duties. Tonight I'll go out to write, so I'll need to bake for that--probably banana bread. I'll definitely need to get the violin out of the case as I've got a band rehearsal tomorrow morning.

Enthusiasm is hard with a headache, but probably it'll fade and I'll transform back into myself. I'm also feeling a little bereft--that post-poem feeling, when I've finished a big undertaking but don't yet have a new draft under construction. I'm pleased with what I made, but it's done now. The work is over. The poem and I no longer have a common purpose, and I'm lonely for it.

On the bright side the friend I walked with in the cemetery asked me to co-lead a day-long class for teachers in which the two of us would figure out some way to meld poetry (my specialty) with theater and dance (her specialty). This will be an absorbing project as I very much admire her classroom artistry; plus, she's just fun to hang out with.

Anyway, today will unfold, and I'll unfold with it, and the headache will go away, and fresh air and a few cups of ginger tea will do their fancy work, and, before you know it, I'll be making things again.