Another wet spring night, which I spent reading on the couch beside a wood fire, half-listening to the Red Sox lose a game, then half-listening to Tom watch a movie in the other room, half-watching the cat snooze upside down on his chair, then floating drowsily up to bed, scissoring into crisp cotton sheets, and then time telescoped, and now it is now.

In this morning's bare dawn, fog drapes over houses and street. But the rain has stopped and Ruckus has already hopped out to prowl the sodden yards.

I hope to start planting in my new garden plot today; I need to prep for tomorrow's reading; I should borrow Tom's truck and go grocery shopping.

Yesterday I started a bad poem that seems to be going nowhere, as if my brain has gotten stuck in the wrong gear. Ah well. At least I managed to make cookies for the guys at the library. At least I watered my plants. At least I've been copying Akhmatova's poems and reading Johnson's novel. At least I cooked dinner and talked to a son on the phone and hung out with Tom. But sometimes I do feel as if art has forsaken me.