Apparently the temperature hit 90 degrees in Portland yesterday, though I never felt that hot. I did all of my sweaty work before 10 a.m.--weeding and mowing and such--then showered and changed into a summer dress, and spent much of the rest of the day reading Colm Toibin's Brooklyn. This time of year, the house still clings to its winter coolness, and I felt like Daisy in Gatsby, draped on the shady couch as a breeze ballooned the hem of my dress.

But the house will become suffocating soon enough, and today T is going to install the air conditioner in my study, which I hope not to have to use much but will be glad to have.

For now the temperature will be more seasonable--highs only in the 60s--and I'm not sure what I'll be doing with myself on this holiday Monday. I ought to tackle some spring cleaning, and maybe I will, but I can't say I'm full of enthusiasm. I want to do a bit of transplanting at some point, but at the moment I seem to have zero ambition, and I feel fine about that.

While I'm doing nothing, I'll share some beauty. This is a smoke bush, planted in the Hill Country last year and thriving. It has already doubled in size and is gorgeous. I planted another variety in the back garden this spring, and it, too, looks magnificent. 

 And what about this iris! Pure lemon, with a tender scent. I am in love.