I got out of bed this morning, made the coffee, opened my windows wide to the morning fog, heard the groan of a ship's horn floating up from the invisible bay.

While I was gone, my garden has exploded into summer. The tomato plants, sodden with rain, are twice their size; the nasturtiums are blooming; the dark golden lilies glow in the fog; the unshaven lawn is flowing over the paths.

My brain feels like rubber. My heart feels like a peony. I am so glad to be home and so sad to have parted from my poets.

Within the past two days, I have written and revised two good original drafts that are nearly finished. That alone would have sufficed for joy. But there was so much more: friendship, thought, excitement, melancholy, chatter, silence, words, song, a watching patient bear. I am so tired that the specificity of description is beyond me.

The Frost Place is one of my homelands. All I can say is: You come too.