Last night as I stepped out my front door about to head out for a walk, I was greeted by a blizzard of blooms. 

Just a bit ago, I came across this poem by Jack Gilbert:

What do they say each new morning 

                                               in Heaven? They would 

weary of one always 

singing how green the 

green trees are in

 Paradise. 

Surely it would seem convention

 and affectation

 to rejoice every time 

Helen went by, since 

she would have gone daily by. 

What can I say then each time 

your whiteness glimmers

 and fashions in the night? If each time your voice

 opens so near

 in that dark 

new? What can I say each morning

 after that you will

 believe? But there is this

 stubborn provincial 

singing in me, 

O, each time. 

And tomorrow I will take a workshop with one of my favorite writing teachers.

And after I will see the man who loves me.

Somehow, in my brain this all fits together wonderfully.