Last night I lay in bed listening to the wind and the rain, and I was reading Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, and nothing could have been better.

Today a social-worker friend is coming to lunch, and we are going to eat omelets and work on our proposal for a writing project with a domestic-violence organization. It's been a growing mission of the Frost Place Conference on Poetry and Teaching to extend our support into nontraditional domains such as veterans groups, family services, lifelong learning, hospitals, etc., etc. Beyond that, my friend and I both held little Coty and Monica on our laps. The damage haunts.

So I'm fired up to be working on this proposal, and I'm also pleased that I've finally learned how to make a decent omelet.

And this week I have written three western Pennsylvania poems, reconfigured the introduction to The Conversation, and looked at preliminary pages of The Vagabond's Bookshelf. Can you tell I'm unemployed?