Wind, warm as bathwater, whips at the house, roars through the trees. There's no rain, no storm, just this southwesterly gale, gusting, swirling, dancing, wailing. Above its moan I hear gulls, crows, songbirds hard at work. They croak, call, twitter, trill; they sail and buffet and flash, tossed by air, uncowed by it.

Today is Easter, a peculiar holiday for those of us who are not observant Christians and have no small children at home. When the boys were little I put together baskets and colored eggs and cooked hot-cross buns and made a big meal, but now I don't know what to do myself on Easter, except to embrace the pagan spring.

Last night T cleared the dead leaves out of the fire pit, lit a flame, and we had our first grill night of the season--lamb chops, halloumi, red onions, cherry tomatoes. I made rice with black pepper and lime, scattered freshly harvested chives and spinach, and we piled our plates high. As we ate, we listened to the Red Sox walk off a win in the tenth inning. The windows were wide open. The pagan spring poured in.

I taught all day yesterday, and today my only solid plans are not to teach all day. The weather won't be as freakishly warm as it was, but it will still be soft. I'll walk, I'll dig, I'll read. I might look at poem drafts. I'll cook something or other involving salmon and mangoes.

Yesterday's class went well, I think, but it was also deeply exhausting. People are so sad and afraid. People are struggling to trust their own imaginations. That is a soul-killing state of affairs, and my own soul took a battering because of it.

At least I have pagan spring for solace. Wind, carry me the scent of hyacinths.