The weather was lovely yesterday--sun after rain; sweet, soft air. I mowed and trimmed outside, opened every window, washed floors, cut fresh flowers for the mantel, went for a walk, baked, read a Liz Strout novel, tinkered with the sonnets. I'm glad I managed to get so many chores done because this morning I need to return to editing. It's just as well to have a desk distraction: I feel bereft, now that the crown is more or less finished.

That's always the question: how do I live with myself when a big poem is over? I don't usually suffer this sensation of loss after finishing a smaller piece, but the long poems are so massively emotional. It is hard to know what to do afterward. My usual tasks and habits seem inadequate, even stupid. Why bother, if I can't have the poem back?

I'm exaggerating a little--really, I am managing; I have plenty of ways to keep myself busy. But I do temporarily lose my purpose after finishing a giant poem, and that is not a good feeling. I suppose it's analogous to coming down after a high; probably the same brain chemicals are involved.

So thank goodness for kind weather, line-dried sheets, a bouquet of white spirea overflowing on the mantel. Outside, a bluejay squawks. I miss my poem.