Finally the rain seems to have stopped, though the sky is still grim. We got more than an inch of water, and everything is sodden--peonies splayed flat, storm drains roaring like creeks. I don't know what chores I'll be able to do outside. My neighbor and I had been planning to prune lilacs together, and maybe we'll manage that. But I don't see much hope for mowing or weeding. The air is sunless and the ground is mud.

Yesterday I messed around with three poem drafts, washed a few kitchen shelves, made chicken stock, read a lot of Anna Karenina, even went for a small rainy walk. Today I've got to go grocery shopping, and maybe I'll undertake another batch of kitchen scrubbing. I do hope I can get outside; I'm feeling house-squeezed, and I really, really want to get the yard in good shape before I desert it for the Frost Place.

Right now my plan is to leave here on Friday morning, but I'm prepared for emergency early departure, should that be necessary. I've got so much stuff to haul--stacks of printouts, stacks of books--and I haven't even begun to think about prepping for my reading or choosing my clothes. The White Mountains in June are impossible to pack for. It is always raining/blistering hot/below freezing, frequently on the same day, so I always cram my suitcase like I'm going away to college. It's so silly.