This time next week I will be waking up in Robert Frost's house. I am hoping for five days of sunshine there, although perhaps it always rains in the White Mountains.
This whole terrible week has been like living in a Frost poem. Think "The Hired Man" or "Home Burial." Or the poem that Baron has chosen as our theme for the week. You'll hear about that one soon enough. Believe it or not, I think the house may now have an Internet connection, unless Frost's mouse has chewed through the wiring.
I still feel like the walking dead. Reading and writing have not been curative. The best solution has been to work in the garden; and as a result, I am covered with bloody insect bites. My arms look as if I have the pox.
Daytime is better than nighttime.