Here's a little poem, "Late April," published this morning in Vox Populi.

* * *

I write to you, not from my customary couch corner, but from bed. Being home alone has its odd perks, and one is that I disturb no one when I lounge here at dawn, typing among the pillows. T will be home tonight, and I will be glad to see him, but having a whole bed to myself is its own kind of treat. It's nice to lie here awake in the early morning, with the birds singing like crazy and the crisp air wandering in through the open windows and the comforter pulled up to my chin.

Yesterday was a hard one: I left Wellington around 6 a.m., got home by 8:15, then did laundry and various garden and class prep things, then taught all afternoon, and by dinnertime I was seriously dragging, so much so that I got into bed at 7:30 and stayed there, a thing that I never do. And here I am, still in bed, recovering from a weighty weekend combined with too much insomnia.

But sleep medicine was good: I'm definitely feeling livelier, and shortly I'll fork myself out of here and go make some coffee and get started with my day . . . editing, exercise regimen, groceries, yard work, cooking, all the regular stuff, and then fetching T from the bus station this evening and hearing about the good times in New York City.

This week should be less crazed than last week, though it will still have its moments. The Maine Lit Awards are on Thursday night, so that's a bit of a stressor, and I'll be teaching my final chapbook class on Sunday. But no overnight travel or long drives till June. I'll be glad to stay in one place for a while.