The Gulf Stream is waning, which has showered upon us in the great northwest of the United States a pressure system which seems stuck on HOT. Thanks, climate change. I prefer a planet with reasonable seasons, if The Powers That Be are listening. (And you're not, Republicans.)
What shall become of our pathetic species? Nothing good enough to mention.
In the meantime, I spend most of my time off these days working on my house and garden. Soon: paint. I'm clearing the shrubbery, one twig at a time, as my beleagured hands allow. There's a mounded pile of quince debris in my driveway which screams for my attention. Tomorrow, I tell it, tomorrow.
And of course, tomorrow also involves planting beans and tomatoes and carrots and cucumbers.....
Where do I find a space in my life to write? Hell if I know. Poetry doesn't write itself. (Nor does it publish itself, apparently.)
Meanwhile, our magnificent and flawed planet continues its inexorable spin.....