So much in bloom--indigo lupines, pale buttery iris, a pure white azalea; purple globes of allium like strange vegetable space ships, spiky bachelor's buttons, and the first white rugosa rose. The wasteland between our shed and the neighbor's garage is adrift with tall lavender and white phlox, sowed by the wind, I suppose, because the patch didn't exist two years ago.

Sunflower and nasturtium seeds have sprouted; dahlia tubers are spiking new growth; tiny carrots and beets spread young arms to the sun.

Peas are climbing their trellis; the first bean leaves are unfolding; radishes are nearly done but arugula and baby lettuce are entering their glory days, and the first yellow blossoms peek out from among the tomato leaves. Blueberry flowers are loaded with bees; hummingbirds hustle past me in the gloaming.

The tiny homestead purrs like an engine, insects and birds and squirrels and plants abuzz all day, and all night long the plants shifting and stretching and unwrapping themselves, as opossums prowl along the fence line and June bugs batter the window screens.

I am writing and I am reading, and I am riding my bike in the new mornings, and pinning shirts to the damp clotheslines. Yesterday I finished an editing project, wrote the introduction for a faculty reading at the teaching conference, talked to Teresa about poems. Today I'll edit an article, edit a poetry collection, start writing out plans for the conference writing retreat . . . I'll clean the upstairs rooms and read about the Brontes and fidget with a poem draft and mow the backyard. There's so much work to be done, and I am doing it, I am doing it, I am doing it all, but the enterprise is fragile and fraught, like juggling duck eggs.