he's from angola;
edgar is his name. he sits
hunched, with folded hands.

azaleas on
the patio, two shades of
pink, preening, flirting.

"when the mountain goes
back to sleep," he says, and walks
into smokey ash.

a weekend of art,
dance, reminders of what it
is that drives, that fuels.

white ash coats the skies
and grounds flight -- volcanoes will
always win these fights.

spring break

the week stretches, yawns,
slinks. yet tuesday already
slips by, into dark.

running and thinking
of anything but -- working
hard on distraction.

a park, a rock creek,
a path that winds, a walk, a
walk, a walk, sunday.

talked to cille

the word cringes, but
the sentiment marches on:
empowered. i am.

dinner in clarendon

lemongrass seafood
curry, summer rolls: poet-
ry on white china.

trying to be healthy!

three bags of tea a
day -- tulsi, holy basil,
plus fish oil and greens.

wednesday

melancholic min-
utes skate by, long strides,
even ones, all day.