I am happy to report that I drove to my reading and back, and arrived at home close to 6 p.m. feeling full of vim, so that when Tom said he he'd been siding the shed all afternoon and hadn't even thought about dinner, I was able to respond perkily, "Do not worry! I will figure something out!" and then I did, and I was not dragging or grumpy or tired but chattered about the reading and seeing old friends, and after a while Tom asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, and I said, "Not work! Be with you!" and he said, "Okay!" and we were both in an extremely good mood as we ate buttery orecchiette with puffball mushrooms from the yard while watching Peter Gunn under a couch blanket with Mr. R (also under the couch blanket).

But now it is Monday. Back to big-house renovations for other people. Back to giant editing stack for other people. The morning is chilly, 37 degrees, and the furnace is humming quietly, which is a surprise, because the furnace used to hum noisily, which suggests that the new furnace guy I hired last month has done a fine job of tightening things up in the bowels of the machine.

Mr. R is sitting cutely on his chair; Tom is sighing and clanking drawers shut; the Bills beat the Ravens by a hair yesterday so my phone is full of happy son texts; and I am feeling as if dealing with Monday is well within my capability. I've got to edit today, and then grocery shop, and vacuum, and maybe work in the garden, if I have time. My garlic has arrived, so I'll have to prep a bed and plant it this week. I'll need to work on plans for next week's Monson session and for Sunday's chapbook class. And I would dearly love to spend time on my own poems.

But, honestly, I am mostly just happy to be vigorous and alive.