A quieter morning today. Everyone but Tom is still asleep, and I am sitting in my accustomed couch corner with my white coffee cup and a small bubble of peace. The air feels thick, as if storms are on the way. Yesterday afternoon I mowed grass and netted the blueberry bushes and harvested our first handful of green beans. The garden is stepping into high-summer gear. Tomatoes and peppers are swelling; blueberries are beginning to redden.

Yesterday the boys rode their bikes to the fish market and came home with two mackerel and two trout. Tom grilled them over the wood fire, and we ate them with freshly made carrot-top pesto (a new venture for me) and a salad of roasted fingerlings, chickpeas, green beans, arugula, and herbs. Dessert was mango and pineapple ice cream.

Today the boys have a long trail-bike adventure planned, and meanwhile I will edit, and Tom will go to work, and we'll meet again for take-out barbecue in the evening.

I have a poem draft, carved out of a prompt I gave Frost Place participants last Thursday, that I'd like to look at. That might not happen, but maybe it will. I feel as if poet-life has leaked away from me quickly since the conference. I've had no break at all, just a breathless leap into the the next demand. Next week's trip to the woods is wavering before me like a daydream.