April 17, 2017

Easter Monday, giving my classes the Easter 1916 reminiscence.

Odd phone call from H, who says she thinks of me all the time. Really? Guilty conscience? Is she writing a check?

My poets are not writing. Neither am I, so I don’t have suggestions to make.

My white dove was back, having her quiet bathe in the pond cascade.

Terrible spiritual upheaval, followed by terrible exhaustion.