Wearing yoga pants and a long sleeve shirt, I head off to the beach for a suddenly cool morning washed in deep blue clouds. I walk north into a strong wind. I pass a man standing among the broken branches of Beer Can Island. The ocean is angry today, he says. It’s just quite windy, I think. I keep walking, watch an ibis strut in the frothy surf. I keep walking to the bridge, thinking my Tuesday morning after my Monday night poetry thoughts, considering the poems everyone shared, the ones I most admired, and why. And thinking about my own, the comments I received, the questions they pose. I think the poems I’m working on will, like all poems, take time for me to understand what they are and how I must continue trying to shape them into what they are meant to be. The biggest question: who are they addressed to? Have I got the right addressee? I realize, and accept, it may be some time before the answer to that question comes. And so I must keep guessing and trying to see if I’ve got it right. Today I find no time to work on them; perhaps not tomorrow either. I will aim for Thursday. My youngest calls me to complain, she’s in the woods with the dogs clomping loudly through the deep snow and feeling stressed at school and I am preparing for an interview with Sanctuary Magazine and so I am distracted and not much of a comfort, and our call doesn’t end well but I text her and call her back and finally she forgives me and we are friends again and I cannot wait until she lands here on Saturday and we will take off our shoes and walk in the sand finding treasures together and I can thank her for all her help with the dogs and house in my absence.