A chill is settling over the little city by the sea. Spring warmth has retreated, and the days are as crisp as autumn. There's an overnight frost watch, daytime temperatures won't get out of the 50s, and I'm likely to fire up the wood stove tonight. That's a classic northcountry luxury: open windows plus hot stove, a combination that can't be beat.

Thus far this week my energy level has been eh. That's not to say I've been idle, but I've certainly dialed down my activity. I've edited a couple of poetry collections, done my exercise regimen, worked outside, run errands, spent the evening with my poetry group, but I've also lounged around, stared aimlessly through windows, and sagged. It seems that ye-old-body-and-brain-continuum is demanding some time off.

Maybe today I'll pep up, or maybe not. I feel perfectly well, just unambitious, which is odd because, despite this sensation, the poems keep pouring out of me, and I know this is good work; in fact, it might be the best work I've ever done.

I'm still working my way through Reynolds's bio, Walt Whitman's America; just finishing up Ford's heartbreaking The Good Soldier; trudging through my Donne project. Yesterday I transplanted seedlings: spinach, carrots, kohlrabi, chard. Today I'll mow grass and answer emails and work on Frost Place plans and do some editing. I'll make tomato sauce and a mango-blueberry cobbler. And the poems, and the poems . . . they tighten like bubbles in my chest . . . pockets of air and memory . . . lies, documents, blood-beat . . .