I went out last night to the salon, and wrote some stuff that probably won't become anything other than blurt, but it was still a good night--camaraderie and entertaining tangents and an atmosphere of fizz and commitment . . . all of which, even with bad poem drafts, was revivifying.

T is home today, thanks to a gift holiday from his employer, so we sort of have a three-day weekend together. I do have some desk stuff to deal with, but I got up late and he is still in bed, and there's a Saturday-morning languor in the heavy, humid air.

I've gone back to reading Woolf's biography, and I found an Edna O'Brien novel on the street last week that I might start looking at today. Probably I should plan on plenty of reading, as I don't think I'll be doing much outside. We're supposed to have thunderstorms by midday, and already the atmosphere is ominous. The sky is thick and dim, and a walk in the garden feels like pushing my way through invisible draperies.

It is tomato weather: how the young plants love these hot and sodden dawns. And I think I'll celebrate my first real pea picking this afternoon, if I can find a moment between storms. The peonies and iris are nearly done, but the roses and lilies are opening. Always, there's something to seduce my eyes.