For a change, it's not currently raining in the little northern city by the sea, though clearly it's recently been raining and most likely will be raining again soon. I like a wet cold spring and all, but a glimmer of sunshine would certainly be novel. Midafternoon yesterday I lit the wood stove just to cut the damp chill--dankness is creeping into the bones of the house.

Still, my new shrubs and transplants are delighted with the weather, and that's what matters. The rose, the elderberries, the flowering almond, the forsythia, the serviceberry, the viburnum--all are glowing. This may be wet weather for humans, but it is ideal weather for mitigating root shock.

Root shock is a metaphor waiting to be unrolled.

I dreamed last night that I was writing a poem called "Ambient Love." Awake, I can't decide if that's a ridiculous title or an interesting one.

This morning I'll go for my walk and then finish an editing project, and then I might run a few errands, and then maybe I'll get outside and do some muddy weeding in the backyard beds. Or maybe, if it's still raining, I'll try writing a poem titled "Ambient Love" that also features root shock.

I've had a few hard things happen this week, a few root shocks, the regular sort of painful things that every old child stumbles into. I could use some ambient love. I'll send some your way in case you could use it too.