Is lined with maples. I didn't recognize them in their springy state, though, or I didn't realize that maples do a funny bloomy thing in the spring. The drive from the cape to New York was a blur of red blooms. This photo was taken as we whizzed through Connecticut where the trees are whole.
I didn't know that branches will continue to do their branchy thing even if they are mostly disconnected from the trunk.
Buckaroo and I walked up our back hill. He calls it the mountain. It's a tangle of falling, blossoming branches, broken from the ice storm. I think there may be a poem in that.
And in poetry news: Received two rejection letters this week for my tired little manuscript. One letter had a personal note attached in which the editor said that she was smitten with one of my poems. I'm beginning to think I should just give up on this whole getting published business, spend more time watching TV.
Ah, well. Here's a tidbit from our whirlwind trip: On the way home from New York, Sweet P would ask every so often, "Where are we?" I'm ok with this. It's "How much farther?" that makes me claw at the windows. As we drew closer to home, though, Sweet P asked more and more often. Finally, after her last, "Where are we?" Buckaroo shouted, "We're in the car!"
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