Two days after my 64th birthday. One day after my first husband Robert’s. He’d have been 59. Unbelievable. He died at 36.
Two thrashers on the mailbox. I’m sitting here in my fave Japanese poly caftan, with peacocks and peonies. I wish I had 20.
Of concern to me:
Has Trump destroyed America?
Why can’t J. get a boyfriend?
What is my budget?
Does X. imagine we are on speaking terms?
Do cut pink lilies have consciousness as well as an almost cloying scent?
When will Rich finish the Le Guin book so I can read it? I bought it, after all.
Are there missing mysterious ways in which I should pump my career?
When this notebook is full, should I try to replace it or just pull one from my stash?
How far could I drive if I had to?
Will the new owner of the vacant lot ever clear the brush pile?
Were the skunks I caught living in that brush pile?
Were the skunks sad to be relocated?
Can skunks truly be said to sad or happy?
Can macrophages?
Can I?
Miriam's Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond 
Thank you! Reminds me of my own silent largely unanswerable questions that I sling out throughout the day . . .