T.

I've been making so little noise here, one might begin to get concerned.

Sometimes silence descends, in its various forms, and these days it's blog-silence. The poetry is still flowing, in spits and furts, but flowing nonetheless. The landscape here grows lush and full, over-leafed, over-greened, and today wetwetwet, hours of wetwetwet. Too lazy to walk to work in the rain, those slosh-footed urban blocks.

Out with poet-friends tonight, an informal gathering to read our work & talk about our work, less structured than my longtime writer's group. Bits of music: guitar and voice. Wine. A good way to end the holiday that was not a holiday for me, worked a full get-it-done day.

Plodding.
One minute at a time.