The first day of October was intensely beautiful--warm, gentle; a day to stroll through bad yard sales and alongside turtle ponds; an evening to sit out by the fire pit after dark, with  two candles and a small glass of brandy, after a dinner of seared tuna and grilled tomatoes and wild mushrooms; an evening to talk quietly, to stroked the surprised cat, to listen to the noises of the city circle around the flickering embers.

It was also a sad day for Red Sox devotees--last game of a lousy season, and then news of the death of Tim Wakefield, legendary knuckleball pitcher: such a huge part of the teams I cheered on with my little son. That little son, now 6'2" with a big beard, texted me in sorrow, recalling the playoff game he'd watched at Fenway, when Tim pitched, and, yes, lost--but the starstruck child was so thrilled to see him in person that the loss was secondary. Ah, baseball, "it is designed to break your heart."

And now it's Monday again. I'll be at my desk today, and tomorrow I'll hit the road to teach on Wednesday; then a meeting in Monson, before driving home that night; and then on the road again on Thursday for an evening reading. It will be a tiring week.

But the house is tidyish; the garden is tidyish. Groceries and laundry are under control. Today I'll concentrate on the desk work, try to some make headway on this editing project before the poet schedule disrupts it.

I'll be teaching poems by Evie Shockley and Camille Dungy, talking with the kids about the tools of the trade--words, images, figurative language, punctuation, white space; talking with the kids about emotion and physical detail, about attentiveness to their own sounds and subjects.

They'll talk back to me about these things, because they're that kind of kid. They'll talk and talk, and then they'll write and write. What a privilege to have a job like this. It's worth any amount of tired.