May 21, 2015

    A bobwhite has taken up residence in my back thicket. This makes me happy.

    Isabella is posting pictures of herself by her father’s grave. It is not always possible to know what to do or say. . . .

    Acceptances from The Kentucky Review.

    Sweetest, smallest rain when I awoke–

    W may come to be writer-in-residence in the department. I almost wept with joy. I miss him. Some of my colleagues are resentful because he arrived another way than they did. That’s because he accomplished something they did not.

    Harry’s voice on the phone, after twenty years, spreads a smile across my face.

    The idea that I will be on the campus of a community college in Omaha longer than I was in Rome fills me with misgiving.

    Still hobbling on my annihilated foot. Nothing visible.

    The Mr Lincoln rose, which went through so much and nearly died getting transplanted from 62, blooms. The calla lilies I despaired of arise. The climbing bleeding heart that I thought was frozen (and which was) regrows and twines among the pansies.