We celebrated our first few warm hours yesterday. Though the day began chilly, by midafternoon the temperature had reached 70 degrees, humidity was heavy, and thunderstorms were on the way. Now, this morning, the sun is shining on the wet trees and grass, and the garden plants look plump and self-satisfied. Beans and morning glories are breaking out of the soil; lilacs are rioting into color. Last night I harvested two chubby bok choy plants for chicken stir-fry, and greens are abundant enough for sandwiches and small salads.

This afternoon I'll be mowing and trimming, if I can climb out from under my editing pile. I'm still reading Jean Stafford's stories, and I'd like to copy out some Dante, though what I really need to do is start composing intros for my Frost Place faculty readers. Actually what I really need to do is clean my desk. Every other place in this house is tidy, yet the desk remains a tar pit. I hate it but I have no storage space--not a single drawer--so things get out of hand easily, especially when I've been writing. And I certainly have been writing.