We're supposed to have rain all day, which is just fine with me. Everything is so dusty from the roadwork, and I look forward to watching the new leaves shift and shine though my wet windowpanes.

I'll be editing, and working on a syllabus for Sunday's class, and starting to write a lecture for the event I'm doing next week for the Maine Women Writers Center. I need to grocery-shop and wash sheets. I'd like to transcribe some pre-poems out of my notebook. I ought to do some submissions.

Yesterday I went for a beautiful, early-morning bike ride through the neighborhood and cemetery, but I won't do that today as my rained-on glasses would immediately blind me. Still, I might walk: a spring drenching is hard to resist, especially with a steaming cup of tea and a wood fire to follow.

For some reason my thoughts are a bit scattered this morning. I woke up hard from a solid sleep, so maybe that's the reason. But now that I'm awake, I'm able to be glad to have finished my weekly housework, to have made my way through the first class of a new session, to be home without prospect of travel any time soon. I'm ready to settle down, ready for a rainy day and books and a roast chicken in the oven. 

By the way: yesterday afternoon I made the best rhubarb pie I have ever baked. Delicious, a beautiful slicer, not one bit soggy. My friend Weslea loaded me down with stalks from her seaside plants, and my own new rhubarb plant added a few of its own to the mix, and, gosh, I wish you'd been here to taste the result.