March 4, 2024

Two raccoons cavorted at the end of my garden while I made coffee. Allow me to think that they’re the two I rescued from my attic, all grown up.

Morning at the river. There was going to be no poem, so I allowed random thoughts. Ring-billed gulls cavorted on the water. Two physically demonstrative lesbian couples reminded me of a couple in my senior seminar late in my career. They fondled and nibbled each other all through class, murmuring lip to ear, and instead of critiquing, which was the purpose of the seminar, praising each other’s wisdom and expressiveness. I was sorrowful because I stood on the wrong side of love, though I considered it was more politics than love. Bringing balance, two young men sat in skirts, pretty sweaters, dangly earrings and brayed at each other in big male voices. The resident white Lab politely showed me to my seat. 

Revision: sad-making. One of us sees a play as a garden, the other as a road. The piece is a better road now, a worse garden. 

The daffodils are in bloom.