I'm off to the Frost Place today so will be in only sporadic touch for the next week. Wish us all luck with the damp and the mosquitoes and the prowling grouchy ghost of Poet Bob.

It's been pouring rain all night. Tom and I dozed off under a couch blanket in front of a wood fire, just like it was March. This morning the garden plants look drunk, and they probably are. When I went out earlier, to lug the compost to the curb, the air felt like a locker-room after twenty-five showers. Sticky door weather. Clumped-up salt shaker weather. Moldy bread weather. Crazy hair weather.