Mourning dove crooning among the pines. Apple trees glazed with pink buds. Grass overrun with violets. Air scented with plum blossoms. Temperature: 40 degrees, because not everything can be perfect.

Yesterday I planted potatoes and picked nettles (carefully). I'm sure you're tired of recipes so I will only mention the polpettone we had for dinner: beef rolled up around caramelized onions, fried nettles, and slivers of home-pickled hot peppers, with a side of quinoa and a salad of roasted parsnips and carrots tossed with chervil.

I am reading Margaret Drabble's The Middle Ground and Anonymous's Beowulf, composing intros for Frost Place readings, finishing up an editing job, and considering the viability of writing a book about poetry and music.

Viability is probably the wrong word. Maybe what I mean is possibility or suitability or would this bore my readers? or can I remember how to write?