Thought

I am starting -- very slowly -- to feel like a writer again.

There is a wonderful Robert Graves poem titled Mid-Winter Waking, that begins:

Stirring suddenly from long hibernation,
I knew myself once more a poet,
Guarded by timeless principalities
Against the worm of death, this hillside haunting;
And presently dared open both my eyes.

It's sort of like that, though it's spring here, not winter -- an early spring with trees leafing out and the magnolias blooming; and I am not much of a poet. But s...