When a man makes a poem, makes it, mind you, he takes words as he finds them interrelated about him and composes them — without distortion which would mar their exact significances — into an intense expression of his perceptions and ardors that they may constitute a revelation in the speech that he uses. It isn’t what he says that counts as a work of art, it’s what he makes, with such intensity of perception that it lives with an intrinsic movement of its own to verify its authenticity.

~ William Carlos Williams

Here’s a favorite wonder of the meadows and wooded trails right now: the variety of dogwood berries on the bushes and trees. They are super abundant and glorious to walk next to in the sunshine. Today was walk, not run, and then a short swim indoors. I walked through the meadow under sunny skies that clouded over later. I was eager to get to my desk for creative time. I needed to spend some time on my monologue course, but first: I wrote commentary for a poem that’s being published in October in Glassworks, and the Looking Glass section is for the commentary. I got very involved in crafting this commentary, thinking about what I wanted to say about this poem from a dream. And I discovered something and was glad I had written. In the afternoon I applied discipline. Sat down and started a new poem. Made enough progress to set it aside. There is a mystery in the house: where did the water go? In the late afternoon I went to make dinner and no water came out of the kitchen faucet. No faucets. The pump man isn’t available to come until tomorrow to see what the problem is. In the meantime, we have a water cooler in the office, and I don’t have to do any dishes or laundry. The Louise Fitzhugh biography is really compelling; AND I downloaded Lauren Groff’s new novel, Matrix, today for listening soon.