My high school visits are done, for the moment, and I'm back on home time. I hope to finish up the Euripides' translations today and then glide into syllabus planning. 24PearlStreet tells me the poetry master class will definitely run, though there's still space if you're thinking about joining us. However, my Bangor essay workshop and my Augusta poetry workshop are now both full.

There's been a lot of melting this week, and the tulips and hyacinth shoots in the bare patch by the house are looking happy again. Most of the yard is still covered in snow, but the piles are shrinking fast. Middle schoolers race down the sidewalks, crashing and stomping through puddles of snowmelt. The cat has managed to find the only muddy spot in the yard and has now tracked most of it across the kitchen floor. Last night in my dreams I lugged armloads of hay to goats and cows, worried about barn cleaning, hoped I hadn't forgotten to feed anyone, fretted over thinness and shabby coats. Teaching, writing, caretaking: they seem to be all tangled up in my subconscious.

Last night, while I was sewing on my dress and cooking dinner, Tom made the casing and sill for the kitchen window. Every little step of renovation enchants me. Instead of raw lumber and bare insulation, we suddenly have a pale simple frame: so clean and smooth, so precise. He is stunningly good at what he does.