I did not write to you yesterday because I was not anywhere near my desk. Instead, I was immersed a long stream of appointments, furniture moving, carpet cleaning, dog grooming, and miscellaneous errands. But now the storm windows are off, the windows are open, and the soft air is drying the sopping carpet. Also, hanging out on a couch that's been temporarily parked in the middle of the yard is more fun than you'd think.

I finished up one editing job over the weekend and am waiting for another to return to me, so I'm seizing this fine weather to spring-clean before my parents arrive later in the week. And then our family will be all Rosencrantz and Guildenstern all the time. Already I feel as if I could easily understudy for Rosencrantz, should an emergency arise.

In the meantime, I'll share the opening of a poem. I won't reprint the entirety here because it's under copyright, but you should search it out and find it for yourself. I don't love every single word, but I love a lot of them.

from Herman Melville by W. H. Auden

Towards the end he sailed into an extraordinary mildness,
And anchored in his home and reached his wife
And rode within the harbour of her hand,
And went across each morning to an office
As though his occupation were another island.