4/1
I like to use my
fingers like rake tines, scraping
dried leaves away. Earth!

4/2
Look at the page where
my face sits — geometric,
bereft of all sense.

4/3
The arbor vitae
shudder and sway in icy
winds. Finn stays inside.

4/4
She faces away.
The better to feel his breath
on her ear? The Kiss.

4/5
After the needles,
image behind the eyelids:
the sea and eclipse.

4/6
Grey skies, grey mood, grey
politics — the way the law
creeps so glacially.

4/7
Mourning doves might be
discussing breakfast, but it
sounds like a lament.

4/9
Begin the countdown!
When have I ever been this
psyched about a trial?

4/10
Primrose, hellebores
didn’t make it, but just look
at those trout lilies!

4/11
Red squirrel in the walls:
a source of distress, expense,
and disagreement.

4/13
Daffodils bow down
yielding to the weight of their
bright, golden trumpets.

4/14
Solitary birds,
hawks are rarely seen in pairs.
They must be mating.

4/15
The Marathon takes
cars, people north to Comm Ave
leaving us in peace.

4/16
I lean and gather
the brittle catalpa pods,
useful for a sec.

4/17
Finn farts up a storm.
Is it the salmon skin or
my fried egg remnants?

4/18
A robin hops through
Siberian Squill and now
and then disappears.

4/20
Clouds meet the sea at
the horizon. Cape Cod Bay
adorned with ruching.

4/21
I walked so very
far in the cold Atlantic
breeze for chocolate.

4/23
All that we don’t know
about others’ suffering
could fill many books.

4/24
Rain speckles bluestone.
I eat a baked potato
for dinner and sigh.

4/25
Unfurled fern fronds march
along the basement doorway.
I did not plant them.

4/26

The Library of
Congress now catalogues my
book, The Weight of Cloth.

4/27
Sometimes it’s the form,
other times the colors, but
always a comment.

4/28
Top dressed peonies,
fertilized azaleas, moved

three ferns. Time to rest.

4/29
Four white handles on
the pansy flats and four white
splotches of bird poop.