The green is becoming intense. Against the foggy sky enormous Norway maples crane their lacy arms. Single bright daffodils rise from a sea of scylla leaves. My eyes can't stop drinking in color.

But it's still cold. Windows are shut tight, and we've lit fires in the wood stove every evening this week, and I go for walks in hat and gloves. I'm anxious to plant beans and sunflowers, but the soil is too dank. So I just wander from window to window, staring out at the empty beds.

I've been reading a fat Robertson Davies trilogy: a reader's version of guzzling a dozen doughnuts at a sitting. I don't know why I'm glutting myself on busy, plot-driven, character-spewing novels while writing tiny spare poem drafts, but it seems to be the way to go, at least for the moment. I think my mind is weary: so much teaching and planning; worry over whether classes are going well, or will go well. The Frost Place conference is looming, I'll be co-directing another high school writing seminar this summer, my third 24PearlStreet poetry class begins in July, I'm teaching a day-long master class in Portsmouth in June, I'm starting to work out details for a three-day residency at a midcoast writing center for late fall, and then there's the giant Monson Arts project. . . .

I'm so grateful to have these opportunities, but they are a mountain too.