Yesterday I edited a manuscript and worked on Frost Place stuff all morning, then went out to grocery-shop and to buy a good, not-icky-plastic hanging planter to decorate the new shed. So now the bright paint is softened by lobelia and vinca, and the refrigerator contains food, and I am ready to head north this afternoon for my final Monson class of the season.

I've done zero prep for it because we'll have guest teachers coming in for the day. Moreover, the guest teachers are doing the driving north, so for two and half hours I will sit like a princess in the back seat of their car.

Till then I'll putter with desk stuff, water new seedlings, deal with laundry, undergo my exercise routine, and so on and so forth. My burgeoning stack of poems is becoming an issue: I need to start thinking about the next collection, but I'm so busy working with other people's collections that I can hardly bear the thought of my own. This summer, I keep telling myself. This summer. If I can snag a week without much other work, maybe I can make some headway.