It's a rainy, windy, stormy morning here in Portland, and I did not expect to be writing to you about it. But the computer repair guys, who told me last week to bring the laptop in on Monday, were not actually at work when I brought the laptop in on Monday. So I guess the webcam fix will have to wait till next week.

Thus, here I am after all, glad to be warm and dry and under cover. Rain is whipping around the house. Gusts are so high that Tom can't go to work this morning as he and his tools would be soaked, so he is enjoying an unaccustomed Wednesday morning in bed.

Yesterday was a a beautiful bright day and it was all about chores: I cleaned the house; hung clothes on the line; did the shopping; bought potting soil; planted potatoes, parsley, scallions, carrots, and cilantro; weeded a little; made chocolate pudding; stir-fried shrimp and asparagus; and finally sat down and decided to be tired. Tomorrow I'll be on the road again, heading to Vermont to spend a couple of days with my parents. So today I'm glad, very glad, to have a day with my own things, and to have most of the housework behind me. I've got a  long list of Frost Place tasks, but possibly I'll manage to do a little writing too. I hope so. But even just being quiet will be a refreshment. All of this teaching and traveling and play-watching and chatter has been wonderful but strange, and my solitary self has been rattling around inside it like a marble.

Outside the weather is wild: windows running with wet, gale roaring through the maples. Up north and in the mountains it's snowing, but we are rain and wind and churning seas. In the gloaming I can see daffodil and tulip buds straining and bobbing; the new grass is a vibrating green; twigs and branches are clacking at roof and windows. The house is a schooner, a bird's nest, a soap bubble. Anything could happen.