Happy birthday to Ruckus the Cat, who is nine years old on the ides of March. He attempted to spill the coffee for his birthday, but I foiled him. Then he snagged my sweater and felt better.

I thought I'd be starting a new editing project this morning, but it hasn't arrived yet, so I guess I won't be. I've got plenty to do without it: an afternoon call with Teresa to talk about our Millay reading; an evening online meeting with my Portland poetry group. Yesterday afternoon, during a zoom-visit with my friend Meg, we decided to read Diane Seuss's new book of sonnets together. So that's one more poetry social to add to my life.

It's cold this morning--10 degrees--but I still might get outside and do some raking or prune the roses today. As I discovered yesterday, raking is actually a little easier when the ground is frozen. Amid bursts of snow flurries, I cleaned out a few beds and boxes in the Lane and raked leaves in the backyard. I'm sure the neighbors think I'm nuts, but I do love early spring chores. Everything seems possible.

I spent a good bit of my indoor time working on a poem draft I started during Saturday's workshop. Turns out I'm pretty happy with where it's going, and I think I'll share it with my poetry group tonight.

Otherwise, what did I do? Drove Paul to work, baked bread, cleaned bathrooms, read The Mayor of Casterbridge, played cribbage, heated up leftover seafood stew for dinner, talked to my friend Ray on the phone. A desultory Sunday.