Spring passed by me like a frog slipping into a dark pond. I found myself busy
making an instrument for a musician in New Orleans, fretting over small things on the scale of millimeters, and all the endless sanding until the maple neck revealed its essence and was soft as skin. Its gone now. Then came the farm work, a wet spring leaving the path to the chicken pen ankle-deep in mud, so I dug two hundred feet of drainage ditches. And now I can pause a moment, gaze at strawberries busily flowering and read some poetry. And that slows it all down; a good poem stops a moment in mid-bloom, the bumblebee legs sticky with yellow pollen, makes it last forever.
Patrick Loafman, editor