the gods' word

on its own
Despite clear and firm intentions over coffee this morning, the lovely sunny 65 degree day developed its own momentum. I'd planned to get down to my desk early, work for several hours, maybe take a walk or go into town. Instead, my morning was broken up almost immediately with three long phone calls and a poetry editing request later on. Before I knew it, it was nearly noon as I drove into town for the mail and a breezy walk through the Overland Sheepskin compound. I was heading toward the tea shop, but got diverted by the waterfall flowing again, and other sights so familiar, yet so new each season.

Aspens aren't green yet, but they're so magnificent, who cares? And the old truck survived another winter and is looking as picturesque as ever against Taos Mountain.

one small step at a time
I finished the Lorna's Laces Limited Edition "Breaking Dawn" socks I'd put aside a couple of months ago because I was bored. But now they're done and fun. Can see self wearing them looking like a Dr. Suess character.

Poetry sessions editing a fine writer's book manuscript have been extremely valuable for me. Although I can edit my own non-fiction work pretty well, I find it almost impossible to edit my poetry - proximity, familiarity?  I don't call myself a poet and may never reach that exalted level, but now I can at least recognize junk!

But beneath the pleasantness of this lovely spring day, when I notice that trees have sprouted half-opened blossoms overnight, is the sad memory of my dearest friend's death two years ago on this day. Back then it was a bitter, cold, end of winter, the ground still covered in a sheath of white as far as the eye could see. We joked nervously that perhaps spring wouldn't come after all and we understood why ancient people made sacrifices to appease the gods of the seasons. A full silver moon rose in a deep indigo sky and, oddly, someone in the distance was drumming. The only color that night was the red blanket draped over her, as if for warmth, as she was wheeled out of the house for the last time. I will never forget that moment, nor will I ever forget you Gayle. Last night I dreamed that you were painting in that other dimension. The work was wonderful, color and pen and ink, and you were having an important exhibition. Cheers!

Awed by her splendor

Stars near the lovely
moon cover their own
bright faces
                   when she
is roundest and lights
earth with her silver
                     Sappho (trans. Mary Barnard)