Yesterday turned out to be gorgeous--almost warm, entirely bright. In the afternoon I transplanted pea seedlings, picked up sticks, thinned salad greens, and went for a bike ride. Paul made a lemon meringue pie. The two of us lingered on the front stoop with the cat. I folded towels fresh from the line and even mowed a little grass. For dinner I served fish chowder, toast, a beet and dried cranberry salad decorated with my own garden sprouts: sorrel, radish, spinach, arugula.

Today will be cloudy and colder as we wait for a soaking rainstorm to slowly trundle in from the west. I still hope to get outside, but I'm crowded with inside obligations today: bread baking, editing, more editing, a zoom meeting about Frost Place stuff, copy to write for Monson Arts stuff . . .

I've started reading Margaret Drabble's The Needle's Eye. I'm wondering when I'll write another poem. I'm trying not to feel disheartened by my fits and starts. I plug away at this letter to you--this letter that maybe you're not reading, or maybe reading with a half-eye to the television or your phone, or reading because you feel obliged to but wish I'd stop talking about laundry . . . and any of that is fine, don't think I'm complaining, don't think I wish it otherwise . . . the point of plugging away at this letter is the fact that I'm actually doing it, anything else is frosting . . . but still: communication is such a desperate urge. I don't know what to say, I don't even long to say something, yet I'm propelled forward, I lean toward invisible distracted you and whisper, Hey.