“Running! If there's any activity happier, more exhilarating, more nourishing to the imagination, I can't think of what it might be. In running the mind flees with the body, the mysterious efflorescence of language seems to pulse in the brain, in rhythm with our feet and the swinging of our arms.”
― Joyce Carol Oates

I knew when I woke up I would run. Had my energy back. Sun helped, encourage me on, ran six miles in the woods with Charlie, good sport. Listened to the podcast Poetry Unbound the whole way:

Your poetry ritual: An immersive reading of a single poem, guided by Pádraig Ó Tuama. Unhurried, contemplative and energizing.

Looking forward to my quiet office, the health of the house, a day at my desk, and the need to write a poem for tonight’s workshop. I have a very loose draft; notes, ideas I hope will become a poem. I work at it for awhile. Doesn’t come. I squirm in my seat, but stay put. Look around through old stuff, old drafts, anything that pulls me in. Can’t find it. The spark. Still, stay put. Quiet the critical voices. Stay put. Find something that moves me, from an old diary entry to my son. Maybe I can do something with it, but I doubt it. Try anyway. Make it a lined poem. It’s okay. Decide to try it as a prose poem. Also okay. Decide to change the point of view. Turn it back to a lined poem. it’s better. Decide to turn it into prose again, and it’s much better still? Who knows. It’s what I have. I make chicken parmesan and a spinach omelette for myself. In workshop, the poem works. And the thing that never happens happens. Nobody suggests I need to change even a word.