A Maine spring is alluring and unsettling, and sometimes barely spring at all.

Yesterday afternoon I walked with poets through the neighborhood streets and the woods and the cemetery. A chickadee sang, and I half-unzipped my winter coat in the modest sunshine, and crocuses and scylla and hyacinths trembled brightly under the breeze. I imagined planting, but it was only imagination, for even in these daylit evenings I light a fire in the wood stove; I push back against the chill that creeps under the door. I wait for snow, and the first honeybees shake the strong little blossoms, and how can this be the same story, but in Maine it is.

This morning I'll go out to walk again. I'll work at my desk again, and in the afternoon I'll run errands again, and then I'll make dinner again and fall asleep again. The waning moon will be a thumbprint blur under the gathering clouds.

Somewhere, in the darkness of now, a robin carols . . . a long liquid song, repeating, repeating. I wish I had time today to write poems.

Today, tomorrow, and on and on . . . the guests arrive, the snowflakes and the mockingbirds, the sharp red spears of the peonies and cold rain etching trails along the windowpanes. All of them long to be here. All of them fight to stay.

***

On another note: I've got two spaces left in my upcoming zoom class, "From Draft to Dream." In this one-day session, you'll carry one of your previously existing poems through a series of revisions so that, by the end of the day, you'll have a set of unexpected versions to ponder. The class will take place on June 2, 10 a.m.-3 p.m. ET, which I've found to be a good window for drawing people from multiple time zones. And it's cheap--only $75. If you've been thinking about trying out one of my classes, this would be a great place to start. You can be working at any level, in any style, with any amount of experience. Everyone is welcome.