Such a sheltered feeling, this walking in green woods. Long ramble, After waking, from a rare nightmare, playing itself out so frustratingly in the just before waking intensity. There is no shaking it off; it says, listen. I have something to explain, the way a scary, helpful dream does, by disturbing. There are good instincts here, to be attended to, and questions to ask, and answer. The dream, the nightmare walks with me and is muted and tamed at the brook, which is tumbling and rushing, fresh water, straight for the river to spill. I return home after lily of the valley, anemones, lady slipper, wild geranium, violets, all cures. I am watering the juniper and hydrangea in the hot beating sun and suddenly a bliss of wind swarms by and the helicopters are propelled, the maple wings twirl and whirl, a whole plethora, a skyfull of wonder shimmering down around me and falling so tenderly to earth. I laugh out loud. Today, I work on the poems from letters and write my favorite, I think, so far, and so near to this end. Two letters left! And this is a very tender and sorrowful one that makes me feel very close to my mother in a new way of understanding her. It is about her miscarriage, but that’s not stated that way in the poem. It’s about mothering, that all consuming change into a new being, and then loss. Moss, moss, moss is what happened next: my friend led a small group of us in a yoga class on the greenest softest moss in the shade of the hardwoods and evergreens and flowers of her garden in a soft May afternoon without a breeze or a chill; it might have been the Caribbean at a fantastic resort, and yet, here it was, minutes away. And I stretched into the trees and the patches of blue sky above and was in my body and out of my body, all at the same time.