I woke up to rain, a welcome sight. It's been such a dry autumn, no planting possible--a disappointment, as I'd been hoping to keep filling back-garden gaps--put in a tree or so, dig in an big astilbe bed, transplant an elderberry bush into a sunnier front corner. Alas, none of that will happen this fall.

But at least rain will soothe what already exists, including my listening ear: the slow clatter of drops melds sweetly into the click and growl of the wood fire. There can be a calming sonic friction between weather and warmth.

Yesterday I finished my plans for the revision workshop, and today I'll go back to editing, maybe also scratch up time to settle next week's high school plans. I need to have everything in place work-wise before we leave for the cottage, and starting tomorrow I'll also need to devote time to sorting out meal prep and packing coolers and such. As usual, my "vacation" isn't one. But I'm used that by now.

The cottage on Mount Desert Island is one of three places that has been a bright beacon and shelter for my small family for decades now. The other two are the apartment in Brooklyn and the little homestead in Wellington. My new poetry collection is dedicated to these friends and their homes . . . I feel such gratitude for their long embrace. But vacation is never the right word for what it means to visit them. They are woven too tightly into the fabric of work and care.