The weekend writing retreat was so good, in so many ways. Camaraderie, deep feeling, new friends; the excitement of talking in complicated, unexpected ways about what we were reading; and such rich first drafts. I wrote two myself: one ragged, one surprisingly fluid. And the drafts the participants created were stunning. It was such a heady, wonderful weekend.

I'm tired now, of course, as I always am after teaching. It's a high-energy sport, for sure. I think there must be different sorts of teachers, the way there are different sorts of runners. I am a sprinter: striving for full concentration, full attention, full presence at all moments. But probably most sensible teachers are marathoners, who have figured out how to husband their strength for the long haul. How else could they do this work every single day?

I have an editing stack on my desk, but I won't look at it till tomorrow. Today I need to catch up on house stuff; I've got a couple of meetings, paperwork to deal with, the usual accumulations . . . But returning to the everyday feels okay, now that I have two new poem drafts buttoned up in my pocket.