Spring is grace. After Friday night's rain, these beauties opened in my front garden, and yesterday afternoon I planted green onions and radishes and peas. That's my pea fence, in the photo below, set up along our front walk so that peas blossoms will spill over to greet imaginary visitors. Sorrel and dandelions are greening; new chives are spiking through last year's dried-up clumps. In the gloaming, Tom strung clothesline in the backyard as the cat, drunk with excitement, chased the end of the line round and round the trees.

In an hour or so I will venture out into the terrible land of grocery stores. I have no idea what I'll find, but I have a list of long-lasting staples: root vegetables, salt cod. Surely the whole city won't be buying up salt cod.

Meanwhile, Tom is going to Vermont this morning to fetch Paul home. T is supposed to start his new job tomorrow. God knows how long that will last: I assume that the building industry, too, will soon grind to a halt. But maybe he'll earn a bit of money first.

While he's gone today, I'll clean house and finishing setting up P's new room--and my tiny new cubbyhole--and then I'll turn my attention to my Monson kids' work. Maybe, at the very least, we can make a book of their best pieces.

I'll read some Rilke too. I'll stare out the window into the cold March sunshine. I'll listen to the cardinal serenade his mate.

Here we are, in this bizarre new world. I am grateful for a snug house and a garden to plant and books to read. I am glad I've got at least a few skills to cope with isolation and shortages.

But I'm weary. I've spent much of the late winter serving as a caregiver and support to friends and family members undergoing various emergencies. Now there's this. Is it wrong to say: I wish, just for an hour, that the small stars would align and I could rest in their clear light?