Monday morning. Yesterday afternoon I finished teaching the final session of a three-part class, so I am stepping into the new week with one less plate in the air. Ahead of me is a long open week at home, a long open weekend at home. I've got tons of work to do, but nowhere to go and not many scheduled obligations, and that is a good thing.

After two damp and chilly days, the weather is forecast to get hot: reaching the mid-80s by Wednesday, a first for Maine this year. Maybe we'll be able to eat dinner one evening on our new outside table; maybe we'll be able to sleep with windows open all over the house.

The mantle vases are cluttered with late narcissi, chive blossoms, golden spurge, bluebells, candytuft. In the late afternoons, I walk into the garden and fill bowls with radishes, arugula, kale, green onions, bouquets of herbs--sage, oregano, mint, parsley, garlic chives, basil. In the house I wander from window to window, my eyes feasting on bloom and green. And yet last night I lit a fire in the wood stove. A Maine spring is multitudes.

I'm hoping for a calm, orderly, patient sort of week. I have so much editing to do, so much class prep to do. The garden is endlessly demanding. I have reading to accomplish; my own poems to write. The house is in dire need of spring cleaning. Slowly, slowly, I pick my way through the thorns.