Regret Stains the Present

The kitchen smells of basil and parsley, green shreds of which still decorate the counter, and the backyard fills with faint pockets of moonlight. Swans circled the bend and entered my field of vision, as later certain women would, and also men. Owls sing contentedly in the deep forest, the slow spiral of their woodwind vowels drifting like soot up the hills. Oh morning, you are never not on time.

Regret stains the present and I do what I have always done: write and give attention to what is written and then write some more. There is always the mail! Fidelity is non-negotiable or it's no longer fidelity but rather scrip with which to bargain. I am never not amazed at how one hears the river at three a.m. but at six it has faded in a welter of bird song and traffic.

Yet more tea while the dog at last relents and curls up on the bed to sleep. We studied the neighbor's gardens, we nibbled garlic scapes like rabbits. Symbolism evolves, novels are mostly afterthoughts. You wonder sometimes about the mind that first pondered the organization of sound and designed and built a flute accordingly.

Words, words and more words! Cats sleep on gathered laundry and one takes to the floor to keep their rhythms fluid. Behold the new sonnet, sketched on the teeth of the poor. We are keeping it tight in shadowed rooms, we are dreaming of lumber dreaming of us.

Strawberries and asparagus and the inclination to festivals abound. Bees in purple clover in the clearing where we sometimes go with blankets. Assemble the strangers? I mean be careful what you wish for indeed.