"This is June, the month of grass and leaves . . . already the aspens are trembling again, and a new summer is offered me.  I feel a little fluttered in my thoughts, as if I might be too late.  Each season is but an infinitesimal point.  It no sooner comes than it is gone.  It has no duration.  It simply gives a tone and hue to my thought.  Each annual phenomena is reminiscence and prompting. 
- Henry David Thoreau, Journal, June 6, 1857 

No rain, and the air is warmer. Today, the drying begins from the long stretch of replenishment. I am looking forward to sunshine, soon, and weeding. Plenty of weeds. I am lucky, this morning. My dear friend said she couldn’t walk early, but then at the last minute she can come, and we take a long walk with our dogs in the woods that are beginning to dry and talk and talk and talk, a long catching up. The ferns are so lush, so green, so generous and comforting. I have a little time today to work on revising the letters––just a bit, but I feel drawn to this stage of the project with discipline and enthusiasm. Each of the poems a puzzle of erasure: have I erased enough? Is the graphic working? These are the early poems, and I was still sorting out what I was trying to do. I spend a bit of time, also, preparing for Farm Pond Writers tomorrow. Then: yoga in a moss garden with friends. Moss, the most enchanting yoga mat of all. And all the lush greenery of this private garden. Enclosed in green, we breathe, we stretch, we balance on moss. I breathed a lot today, deeply. Letting go of old ideas, discovering new ones. I have a long talk with my daughter in the afternoon, a mending. Yes, that’s it. That’s how the moss felt so right under my feet. Balance restored.