I sat on my patio early this morning with a notebook, pen dangling from my fingers like a divining rod, no sound but the steady hum of a/c’s. I poured a scribble of seed on the window ledge and waited for the pigeons to arrive. My thoughts were aimless this morning, like kicking a rock down a dirt road. . . . Soon it will be July. . . . July of last year my husband died, and in the months since everything has been measured against, weighted by, made relative to, that singular event. So much changed. But what remained constant has been a great source of comfort. Poetry. Constant. Again and again over the past year, I have been struck by how poetry is an act of turning. Turning from despair toward hope. Again and again I have turned to poetry, and again and again, it has turned me.
 
I have learned this year that expressing gratitude transforms bitterness into grace, so I want to express my gratitude for the care and support I have received this year from so many people. I want to thank H. (brilliant lovely) in particular. Your extraordinary love and kindness keeps me where the light is. I will never be able to adequately thank you, H., but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.

And I am grateful to you dear reader, for turning to diode, for sending us your poems, and for coming here to read the work of others. You’ve been a constant.
 
Thank you.
 
“Let yourself be drawn by the strange pull of what you really love.”
 
                                                                                                       —Rumi

Doha, Qatar