Before I was awake, my husband was dressed and ready to go to his morning meeting, driven by a friend. Suddenly, all my assumptions about what his recovery would be like changed. His will be a very active, energetic recovery. I went for my walk. The sun was shining even though it was muddy and cool. I went straight to Lady Slipper Row, trusting I would see an early blooming flower, and before long I did - I saw a few. A week ago I saw the first glimpse of the hips and so much was a bit scary and uncertain. I crossed the sunny meadow with the dogs, and grass smelled fresh under our feet and I stopped to smell one of the many bright, cheerful buttercups. I had no intention of going to poetry tonight. No new poem. But my husband, when he returned home, wanted me to go. By late in the afternoon, I actually had a draft of a new poem. It was inspired by a prompt I led my Wed. morning writers in two weeks ago, and I rarely write from the prompts I offer during workshops as I’m focusing on the role of facilitator, but had written some raw material about a childhood memory of removing my father’s shoes. I had kept the notes in my notebook, hoping I would have time to start the poem from the notes. Once I located the notes, I didn’t fuss or procrastinate. I just sat down and wrote it and brought it with me tonight. I feel like I have something good to work on, and I’m completely surprised at how this day has turned out. And the rain. Pouring, all the way into Cambridge, and all the way out, and a downpour outside in the dark night now. I like it, this driving sound, water through the trees onto the ground, a pounding awareness sky and earth, drenching and sloshing me off to sleep.