This autumn clematis spills over the iron trellis that adorns the stone steps between our driveway and the neighbors' . . . a pathway that I call "Barry's Arch," in honor of our first mailman. All subsequent mail carriers have also used this route between the houses; it might have been made for their convenience because otherwise no one much uses it. When we moved into the house, the arch was empty, though someone without knowledge of rose habits had zip-tied dead branches to the iron. It was a depressing sight.

But now the clematis, which I planted two years ago, has exploded into glory. All day long it is vibrating with delighted bees, and it frames the mailman like a bride. He is a friendly guy, very enthusiastic about my cat, so I like to see him in such environs.

* * *

We've got another hot day in the offing. My hair, which yesterday was so sleekly cut and styled, has already returned to its wild ways. I have no control over it. My hair is beyond me. It is like a weird aunt: it does whatever it does, and I wince and hope it doesn't embarrass me too much in public.

Tonight, despite the hair, I'll go out and write. Today I'll lug a pile of winter coats to the dry cleaner, a job I ought to have undertaken months ago. And I'll probably make a batch of sauce for the freezer, and I'll do some reading and some planning for my high school classes, and I'll muck around with desk stuff--poems and paperwork. I expect to receive a small editing project later today, and I've got bigger ones waiting in the wings. But for the moment I'm still cruising among my own projects.

I don't feel as if I've been writing particularly well. Nonetheless, I'm keeping at it. If I'm not inspired, at least I'm mulish.