What a glorious spring day we had . . . shirt-sleeve weather; bright, bright sunshine after days of rain. The neighborhood cherry trees have burst into bloom, early tulips glow, tiny new leaves sprout on every sappy branch. 

Though I spent much of the day at my desk, windows were open all over the house, and birds and the city chipped and muttered to me as I worked. I was immersed in a new poem, a multipart piece that arose from the jottings I'd made in Natalie's workshop--a big messy surprising draft, my favorite sort, one of those new strange wondrous embryonic ballads that make me feel like a million bucks, as I wrote to a friend yesterday.

I woke up this morning with the memory of that new mysterious draft trembling under my hands. It is the second-best feeling . . . the first-best was yesterday's making, but second-best is still magnificent. All day long, as I pack my bags, as I drive north, I'll picture the poem breathing air, the poem unfolding its wet wings.

Spring and a big new poem. Heading north to the homeland. A final class with my young folks. The friendly gaze of my beloved. The returning vigor of my old cat. Even the pettier pleasures: homemade chocolate pudding with fresh whipped cream; a Yankees loss to the Orioles. They are the ballast to the terrible dream I had last night, when everywhere I went people were being assassinated, though I myself was not important enough to be killed. No need to explain the source of such nightmares: we are living inside them.

Still, we also live inside pickup softball games, little children with bubble wands, the flowering cherry exploding into blossom, dogs rolling in green grass, a wren skittering up a tree trunk. When the words on the page suddenly speak the words of the body, well, then, as the hymn asks, "How can I keep from singing?"