It's not raining currently, but that's only a temporary condition: showers will move back in this afternoon, and tonight and tomorrow will be wet. Given that I have absolutely no holiday-weekend plans, I couldn't be happier. Already the cucumber and tomatoes have exploded with growth; I'll cut the first broccoli and peppers this weekend, and I have hopes for baby beets as well. Sunflowers and zinnias are finally budding and blooming; and though the groundhog has ravaged my bean plants, even they are showing signs of hope.

So rain and more rain--yes, please.

I slept in till after 6 this morning . . .  a rare treat. Now I'm sitting quietly in my couch corner as the cat coils into his chair and Tom dozes in our bed. The milky sky is low, portentous. On the mantle a vase of coneflowers casts twining shadows against the painted wall. It feels like a good morning for poems, even if I don't write any, even if I don't read any.

Last night Tom and I watched Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye as we ate roast beef and garlic mashed potatoes and lemony mushrooms and freshly picked lettuce and homemade apricot ice cream and local strawberries. It was so peaceful, so comfortable to be together.

Sometimes I forget how lucky my life has been. Sometimes know that I am beyond fortunate.

As we sat together on the couch, our boys were texting us from the West--about their day spent whitewater rafting on the Salmon River in Idaho; about their next stop, at the Black Canyon of the Gunnison in Colorado. The Birtwistle brothers on the road . . . young, strong, energetic, and joyful.