It is a delicious thing to write, to be no longer yourself but to move in an entire universe of your own creating.
—Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880)

Today has been a day of ordinaries, writing the driest of prose, cover letters for poetry contributions.

From 'As we grew':

moths ushered out the butterflies
the dark was too slow
running to catch the light
the cicadas sang on

I am procrastinating on contacting the publisher. I think I'm afraid of disappointment, so I put it off. Better make it tomorrow.

Let it be tomorrow.

worms still on the ground
last night's rain reflects the sky
nothing dry on earth