Looks like we're in for another round of choppy weather today: thunderstorms, maybe hail, and a temp that won't climb higher than 60 degrees . . . a strange raw summer-like menu. No laundry on the line, clearly, and likely no work outside either. But yesterday did brighten after lunchtime, and I'm glad I had the wherewithal to pick up the branch detritus and then quickly run the reel mower over the patch of front lawn. Weather like this turns grass into fiends.

Inside, I'll be editing, juggling Frost Place stuff, working on poems, reviving my languishing essay. If the weather turns out better than expected, I might get my bike out, fill the tires, dust off my helmet, take it for a neighborhood spin. But I doubt the weather will be better than expected.

Whatever happens, it's pleasant to have a few days offstage. For the moment the sky is bluing, a phoebe is singing, and the neighbor's cherry tree is shimmering with new blossoms. I want to be a poet today, and I think I will be. Maybe poet only means "Pay attention."