Yesterday afternoon I took a small side path into cooking--baking a batch of chocolate crinkles, putting together a beet salad--but that was just a blip. The bulk of my hours were spent reading and writing: a marathon day, devoted to words. I wrestled with my long poem, I finished rereading The Years, I studied a short story I admire to try to figure out why it works so well, and then in the evening I went out to write with my friends. Of course I also accomplished a few pedestrian things, like laundry and dishes, and I did go for a walk and I did help Tom get his truck back from the mechanic. But words were the feature of the day, and I tried to make my hours count.

Today won't be quite as focused as I have errands to run, but I will still carve out some morning hours for myself, and then in the afternoon Teresa and I will chatter on the phone about Swift, Pope, Johnson, and the poets who swam in their wake. I'm quite looking forward to what she has to say because I enjoyed rereading those 18th-century guys far more than I expected to.

Swirling in the world of letters . . . pacing the floors of the Alcott House, alone with my bookshelves and my notebooks, new lines unrolling under my fingers. What a dreamy few days I've had.