Paul and I picked out this rose bush in early April, when it was nothing but bony canes, and today it is in full bud--a gorgeous creamy yellow, the shade of a lemon tart. I am delighted. I love roses, especially the old-fashioned fragrant ones, and this one is now settling among the reclamations that were here when we arrived: a thriving white rugosa and a pair of dark pink tea roses with an aphid problem. Angela just brought me a red rose from Wellington, which looks very peaked at the moment, but I'm nursing it. I have confidence it will survive.

The heat has been intense, but the gardens are hanging in. The tomatoes love this weather, and I'm hoping the temperatures might sandbag some of the insects that have been destroying my bean and okra seedlings. I'll pick a second batch of peas this afternoon, and a batch of garlic scapes. Cilantro is growing crazily all over the flowerbeds, and green strawberries are swelling. We are tilting into high summer.

James didn't arrive till mid-afternoon, so I did manage to get some desk work finished before he appeared. This morning I'll do some Frost Place things, but mostly I want to spend time with my sons. I haven't seen J for almost a year, and now he and Paul are busily planning their big western adventure, and the house is full of boys and chatter, and that cat is insulted because everyone keeps sitting in his chair.

For now, though, all inside is quiet. Coolish air filters through the open windows, crows holler in the maples. soon Tom will heave himself out of bed and start getting dressed for work. I will turn my thoughts to laundry and dishes, and maybe my exercise class, if it seems socially feasible.

I've been reading Raymond Chandler's The High Window and thinking about the Odyssey. I've been listening to Nina Simone and REM and Red Sox games. I've been playing cards and conjuring a poem in my head. So many cadences, so much varied language and dramatic pacing, and all of it feeds the work. I think that is magical.