Yesterday evening I learned that a poet-friend's husband contracted Covid in his nursing home, has since been hospitalized with a high fever, and meanwhile she's in the midst of Zoom-teaching a poetry residency, and, good lord, do not let me complain about anything in my life. She lives pretty close to me, so I'm sending my large son over to help her manage some of her yard work while I'm immersed in my own conference. At least Paul and I can do a little bit more than nothing. But not much more.

Except for that sadness, yesterday was weirdly productive. I wrote--and, I think, finished--a sonnet triggered by the phrase "God's waiting room" (apparently a common epithet for Florida) and George Herbert's "Prayer (I)." I cut down old plants--chamomile, arugula, sorrel--and dead-headed peonies and salvia and did some weeding. (We were supposed to get rain, but not a drop fell. Everything is dry dry dry.) I had a Frost Place meeting; I wrote a lot of emails; I made mango sorbet.

Today: the meetings continue, the garden watering re-commences. I'd like to harvest some sage for drying. I don't have any idea what I'll make for dinner. My sonnet is still luring me in, like a siren.