Morning on the couch, midday in the woods, afternoon in the coffee shop. Chose several beautiful (but wildish, hardy) native plants from the fundraiser at the wildflower preserve. Then I read about a year's worth from this sprawling cache of draft poems, deciding what to finish, what might be mined, what should be abandoned. I guess this is the way I work, because I remember this process—write, but don't look back, until there's enough collected. I still have a few more years to get through, in this stash. I don't know, the weather's changed, hasn't it. I can smell the thunderstorm, hear it rumbling, watch it rearrange the light.