“. . .Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee."
-  William Blake, To Spring, 1820 

I wake right to my poem; I have been awake in the night, listening. Words, lines, ideas for revision run in my head. I work for quiet awhile instead of meeting for morning chat with Frank. And then I hit send, let if fly over the Internet to my workshop mates to be shared tonight and walk out into the wet morning under the clouds. It will be cloud and cool all day, I think. Charlie and I stay out for a long happy walk. In the wetlands I stop for the pussy willow yellowing in the wetlands. The house, indoors, is pleasantly busy. They like my idea for dinner: potato pancakes. Well, I’ve only made them once before, years ago, and not a success. But I resolve, from their enthusiasm, to try, and I am feeling confident lately in the kitchen. First, I make a batch of chocolate chip scones from a new recipe and they bake golden and perfect. Then, my daughter helps me grate the potato and onion. I have researched my recipes and found one that works: the pancakes are browned just right in the pan, they seem worthy of a supermarket display. We serve them with applesauce and sour cream, and all of this effort pays off. Tonight, the poem pays off. In this workshop I see that my hours from last night and more from this morning, this many revisions has landed me very very close to just right. I slept on it. It made all the difference.