I went out to write last night, for the first time in two weeks, and I guess it was the right thing to do because all three drafts poured out of me, a rush of words, a swirl of geography, bits and pieces of my reading, of my days, floating like jetsam in the torrent of lines.

It's possible that next week I might have a chance to work on some of the material in my notebook. There's a lot to comb through: I haven't had revision space for weeks, and I won't have it today. I need to finish the editing project; I need to prep for tomorrow's reading; I need to meet with my Poetry Lab compadres; I need to clean the downstairs rooms and wash sheets and towels; I need to make chicken stock and weed the gardens. There's not enough time in the day, some days, most days . . . especially in spring.

But there's happiness: the alarm didn't go off at 4:30 this morning, and I slept hard all night long. I've drunk my one small cup of coffee, and a dark blue sky is unfolding behind the silhouetted maples. This morning, before breakfast, I'll take a long walk; I'll amble toward my slate of obligations and keep watch for hawks and mockingbirds and woodpeckers and bobbing daffodils.

What a fancy world I live in, gilded with poems and clothespins and packets of seeds.