One of several resolutions I have made this year is to write more frequently -- here or on paper, it doesn't matter as long as it's done. I hate that I let myself become so complacent about writing, as if it meant nothing to me. As if it were something small and cheap I could afford to squander, not the one thing that defined me. But maybe that is telling of my life lately, and certainly more than I care to contemplate today.

In any case, the weather is perfect for writing this afternoon, the sky one gigantic swirl of gray cloud. Little raindrops glide down the branches of the trees, and leaves spin in puddles, and the faint wind carries a distant rumbling of thunder. Add patches of daffodils and it would be a very Welsh landscape, something to gaze upon while scratching out poetry. Yes, I think that is what I will do, regardless. And if anything worth posting appears, I will add it later.