Home again, thank goodness, thank goodness. I am so glad to be wrapped in my accustomed bathrobe in my accustomed corner, drinking my usual coffee from my usual cup. It's been a good trip all around, but little Alcott House and its inhabitants are glad to see me, and likewise.

Tom and I strolled down to our favorite restaurant for dinner, strolled home, listened to baseball, dozed on the couch. It was a highly middle-aged reunion, but delightful nonetheless.

Now, this morning, I am thinking lightly of laundry and groceries and yard work. I'll be attending the afternoon's Poet's Table session--and I'm looking forward to writing under Beth's guidance, after two weeks away from my desk. (If you'd like to join us, it's not too late, and it's dirt-cheap.)

Otherwise, the weekend can take its own course. Sunshine, mid-50s, and a garden in need of puttering. The Aeneid asking to be read.