Yesterday was so lovely. I sowed cucumber seeds, planted marigold seedlings, thinned kohlrabi and arugula, transplanted cosmos and nasturtium sprouts, and cultivated all the beds, front yard and back. I talked to neighbors on all sides of the house. I picked a pan of tender greens and another of cilantro thinnings for dinner (haddock tacos with lemony mayonnaise). Meanwhile, Tom took measurements for our new kitchen countertop (!) and planed boards for a backyard bench; Paul listened sentimentally to the entire Hamilton soundtrack and deconstructed a broken canoe seat for repair; and the cat lay around under bushes and squinted at us with affection and irony.

I suppose I'll need to clean bathrooms and floors and windows today. Tom is planning to do the final coat on his concrete fire pit. I've got to finish reading a poetry manuscript and write a blurb. Paul will probably be doing a pile of laundry. We'll eat braised chicken, Yorkshire pudding, and wilted broccoli rabe with garlic. Then we'll all go to the drive-in.

One thing about this quarantine: I haven't been any less busy . .  . unlike my older son, who struggles every day to fill his time, though he is naturally an active, bustling, projecty kind of person. He's been laid off from his job, lives alone in a small apartment, has no outside area to tend, not even a cat. Every morning he calls me to laugh about his "plan for the day": say, gluing together a wooden spoon or cleaning his ceiling fans. Lately he has been able to get his bike out and ride in one of the Wisconsin forest preserves. But he is thinking seriously about driving east to be with us, maybe in a month or so, depending on CDC recommendations. We'll be thrilled to see him, of course. But little Alcott House will become exponentially busier.

It still feels so strange, this reconfiguring of the family unit . . . At first, the usual historical shift: slowly from a pair to three, then quickly to four and staying that way for close to 20 years; then a slide down to three, and then down again to the original two . . . until Crash, Bang, we're back to three and soon maybe back to four--except that now we're all adults: large in body, complex in our distractions and obligations.

I find it difficult to write poems under these circumstances.