In yesterday's can't-miss news: it was the ides of March and, more importantly, it was Ruckus's 10th birthday, which he celebrated with a trip to the vet and a rabies shot. He may be an older gentleman, but he is bracingly healthy: trim of figure, thick of fur, with a smart mouth and a zippy attitude. Long may he thrive.

Today: I've got a couple of meetings, and then a reading this evening, but I think I'll have time for some writing and for some yard work too. It feels good to be slightly less pressured, at least for a day or two. Portland got a little more rain last night, and thawing continues apace. Buds are swelling on the lilacs and the blueberries. Soon the grass will begin to green . . . and thank goodness I remembered to lug the lawnmower to the hardware store for sharpening. 

So I'll go to my exercise class, and then I'll get out my notebook and look at some of my pre-poem scrawls from last weekend's seminar. I'll sit down with the Aeneid. I'll open the back door and take a gulp of raw spring air. I'll figure out what I'll be reading tonight. I'll consider the possibility of hanging sheets on the line.

Accident Sonnet 12

Dawn Potter

I’ve been dreaming lately,

dreaming about birds,

about watching birds scatter

like spiders through

the rooms of my house;

dreaming that my older

son is younger than

my younger son;

dreaming that I

mistakenly married

my junior prom date;

and when I wake up

I am shocked and What

the hell, Time?

[from Accidental Hymn (Deerbrook Editions, forthcoming)]