We're supposed to get rain today, and I sure hope that's true. Only my willpower is keeping the garden and new shrubs alive, and my willpower is getting very, very tired of the water bill.

I had a long day on the road yesterday . . . driving up and then down Route 1, through midcoast towns I've rarely set foot in---Newcastle, Bath, Nobleboro--though I have devoured the oysters they grow . . . along knuckles of land, across fingers of tidal rivers, clogging up stoplights amid the vacationers streaming up and down the coast, crossing bridges I was afraid to cross but crossed anyway . . . and then a reading, my first inside, in person, for years, and a lovely crowd and a lovely, lovely setting by the sea, and I even signed books, and that alone felt so bizarre . . .

And now, Monday morning in the Alcott House. Sticky and overcast. Tom upstairs yawning loudly and bumping dresser drawers. Me, thinking about housework and grocery shopping, editing and phone calls, what needs to get done what needs to get done, the little sing-song chorus of Monday morning.

I've got two poem drafts in progress, and I hope to fidget with them in the fringes of my utilitarian day. I hope to cook red beans and rice. I hope to stand at a window watching the rain pour down.