I did get outside yesterday afternoon, and I did get many things planted: peas, potatoes, onions, arugula, radishes. It felt so good to be scratching around in the dirt and then afterward, from the house windows, to glimpse the black earth rows, fluffy and soft from the cultivator, so tidy and full of promise.

Today, in and among my desk and grocery responsibilities, I'll get outside again. I want to do some weeding; I want to bag up sticks. I want to hang clothes on the line. The cat, who is loath to let me out of his sight, will be delighted. There's nothing he likes better than hanging around in his own yard with his own people.

I've been reading a history of the Comanches, S. C. Gwynne's Empire of the Summer Moon. I've been working with student poems, getting them ready for display. I've been making risotto with the last of my foraged maitake mushrooms. I've been editing a book about mothering during the pandemic. I've been discovering a leaky pipe in the basement.

Other stuff: On Saturday I've got a reading at the Gibbs Library in Washington, Maine. And DeLuge Journal has just published an issue featuring the members of my Thursday night writing group, the May Street Writers. All of our poems in the issue are responses to the same prompt, so reading them will give you an idea of how rich and varied this process can be.