All of my childhood fantasies—icescapes
with Alaskan cranes, treasure diving
in the Black Sea—Putin has beat me to them.

He drapes a medal over his shadow
then extradites the dead from purgatory…

~ Excerpt from “Mine’s Not A Political Heart,” by Maya C. Popa

Frank’s awake at 4:00 a.m., and me soon after, but I don’t leave the bed so early as he does. My body wants rest. Except, I know we will have a nice, quiet conversation in the pre-dawn quiet, coffee, and so I rise. Find him in his office. We have our time, and I go for an earlier than usual swim, back in time to be the driver of the Special One. No walk for Charlie and Suzi, as I am passing the supermarket and food shopping takes precedence. Then, home to prep for my workshops tonight and tomorrow morning. And, then I go to a workshop with Vanessa Gabb, a poet mentor, who leads a 3-hour seminar on Non-Western Women Poets which is a small group discussion and very stimulating and interesting. It’s not until the late afternoon, the warm and sunny afternoon, that I get to at least stroll across the field to the river with Frank. Huge puffed up clouds reflecting on the surface. It’s so nice to have him home. He is a calming and optimistic influence to the household every day. The problem solver. And I am particularly grateful when he takes down the rusty evergreen Christmas wreath that I can’t reach on the outside of the house that has been hanging there far too long. And Easter approaches!

P.S. I just went to CNN, checked the news. Unbearable. Unbearable. Sick to my stomach over what Zelensky is revealing of atrocities.