This morning I'll drive my last two young-people visitors to the bus station. Then I'll return to our quiet house and slowly start stowing away Christmas decorations, folding up beds, washing linens,  realigning my thoughts. Next week I'll be back in class; editing projects will soon reappear on my desk; but today and tomorrow are mine. First thing is to tidy the nest. Second thing is to spread poems all over the couches and tables and chairs and seriously think about manuscript construction.

My last two collections (Chestnut Ridge and the unpublished A Month in Summer) were historically triggered, though they are very different in character. This one is more like my first three collections--an olio of memoir and invention. But the connecting thread is frayed and tangled. Every order feels like disorder. The individual poems are finished entities, but the larger pattern eludes me.

Well, I'll get there eventually, if I can convince Time to leave me alone for a little while.