The lilacs were late but her eyes

bloomed.

~Excerpt from “Lilacs,” by Kelly DuMar

I wake and write before walking. It’s disturbing, to feel that I’ve got a rough draft of a poem I want to like still in bad shape. Yesterday, from Joan’s workshop, the draft of the Georgia O’Keeffe poem about her bowl. It is so weak. But, the feedback has opened up my imagination. I spend a lot of time on it before walking. I work until I want to give up, I come close to giving up, and then I reach satisfaction. The violets thrive in bunches along the trail. I go to the swamp, hoping I will see something that captures my eye. Wet bark and the pictures I see in it. A walker in sun. Home, and later, a second walk, I can’t resist, my daughters go after lunch and urge me. Lucky, my daughter points to the lady slipper blooms. Today is two anniversaries. My parents' wedding anniversary, and the anniversary, one year, from Frank’s heart surgery. The longest day. His fabulous recovery. Our gratitude and good luck. At this time, one year ago, I was waiting, alone, for him to wake up. Tonight he’s awake beside me. My parents spent the first night of their marriage at a cabin in Fitzwilliam, NH on Laurel Lake in the chilly rain. It’s raining out tonight, and unseasonably cold. Quite like, I suspect, the night they spent in the unheated cabin, warming each other up.