It's been a perfect Maine spring: chilly mornings, fires in the stove at night, plenty of rain and sun, subdued insects, an R.I.P. groundhog, and the neighborhood cats posing handsomely in a patch of clover.

I'm harvesting arugula, spinach, and lettuce; radishes and green onions. Already I'm drying the first batches of thyme, tarragon, and catnip, and I garnished last night's baked salmon with marigold petals and chive flowers.

I think today will mostly involve laundry, gardening, and poems. I'm well caught up on the novel-editing, and tomorrow T and I are planning a canoe outing, so I'll mess around with my own stuff today. I am determined to start printing out poems that might fit into a next collection. I want to do some weeding and transplanting and take a trip to the nursery. For dinner I might make tacos with leftover roast lamb and fresh greens and a carrot and mint salsa.

Meanwhile, this new collection is niggling at me. I know the parameters of what I'll be putting together--all poems that, in some way, were written in community with other writers--but I have no idea of what it will look like in actuality. I feel nervous, as I always feel nervous. What if this is a stupid plan? What if the poems aren't strong enough to create a compelling structural net? I waste too much time worrying.