The Frost Place Conference on Poetry and Teaching begins next weekend. I'm confident that I'm forgetting everything I need to remember, but I'm also excited. Not only do we have a great faculty lineup, but our participant numbers have gone up this year. New people are coming from all over the country, and it will be wonderful to see their faces in the barn.

I hope the weather will be kind; I hope the ticks and bears will stay on their own side of the fence; I hope the mist will linger over Lafayette Mountain and the bats will fly at dusk and Merry the caterer will make that lemon layer cake again.

Already this morning hummingbirds are buzzing their feeder. I think it will be a real summer day: I might wear shorts; I might bury my face among mock orange blossoms; I might lie on my back and stare at the sky. Tonight Tom comes home.

Yesterday I started a poem draft. I edited a chapter about literary catfights among midcentury American poets. I ran the vacuum cleaner, and I made shrimp and potato salad for dinner. I did not cry on the phone; I did not even cry to myself. I must be getting better at being alone.