I'm hitting the road early today so will talk tomorrow. Stay tuned for cat drama. Oy. 

Another cold gray day on the docket, and then three days of rain to follow . . . and naturally they are timed exactly for when I'm supposed to be driving back and forth to Vermont. Sigh.

Well, we'll see what transpires. It's possible my family would rather I didn't come when the weather's bad, but for now I'm assuming I'll be on the road tomorrow. So today will be housework day, and it ought to be weeding day as well, but the conditions have been poor for garden work. I did get the grass mowed yesterday, so that's one thing to cross off the list. But the laundry never dried, and the air was a refrigerator, and everyone I saw on my walk had their coats zipped up tight, except for teenagers.

Given the weather this week as well as my incipient travel plans, I've been more or less nailed to my editing desk, though I've been working on conference plans around the edges. I ought to be designing some more Poetry Kitchen classes, but right now all of my teaching energies are focused on the conference, and I can't seem to dredge up the get-up-n-go for a whole new round of invention. I think in some ways I haven't quite recovered from my glum period. Also, when I look back at this winter I think, Jeez. No wonder. Ray died. The United States took an axe to the head. I was sick enough to go to the emergency room. Also I worked really, really hard through all of it. I need to cut myself some slack. Those new Poetry Kitchen classes will appear eventually.

On the mantle is a fresh bouquet of half-opened chive flowers and budded-up salvia and yarrow. Outside lilacs are blooming, and the white azalea glows in the half-light. Bluebells and woodruff sweeten the shade.

I know I've got to tug on my boots and make myself drive to Vermont tomorrow. I know have to grind out a few more hours at my desk, and then scrub toilets and drag the vacuum cleaner around the house. Before enlightenment: chop wood and carry water. After enlightenment: chop wood and carry water. Always the same old story.

But I will go for my walk this morning. I will breathe in the fragile, fleeting scent of crabapple blossoms. I will watch baby squirrels wrestle and chase in my backyard. I will keep reading this incredible Colson Whitehead novel I snagged at a yard sale on Sunday. One of these days that old sun will decide to show his face again. I look forward to seeing him.

The weather's suddenly gotten so cold again. Yesterday was raw and blustery; and even I, dedicated outdoorser, couldn't find the gumption to weed or mow in a damp wind. Then, of course, the rains erupted and I just barely snatched the laundry off the line in time. Last night I lit a fire in the stove, and this morning the furnace has kicked on. It's hard to believe that, calendar-wise, we're on the cusp of summer. The view looks like mid-May but the air feels like the first of April. We've had maybe four balmy days over the past two months. And yet everything is growing beautifully. Clearly spring knows what it's doing, so I will not complain.

Instead of working outside, I spent most of the day at my desk, plunging through a fat stack of editing, though I did take time out for a coffee party to talk with faculty about their conference plans. Today I'll be back at my desk, but maybe this time I'll also talk myself into doing some afternoon yardwork in the cold.

I've been reading Colson Whitehead's Harlem Shuffle and very much enjoying it, though I ought to get back to my Shelley assignment instead of wallowing in novels, as is my wont. I enjoyed the recent New Yorker article about the New York Mets, and then last night enjoyed listening to Mets radio as the Red Sox beat them. (The Mets are my second-favorite team, and I could also be talked into rooting for the Tigers in the postseason. I fear that the Red Sox will not be an option in that regard.)

I do wish I could sleep better. Even when I've managed to doze off, I've been beset by peculiar linked dreams centering around various central Maine women of my acquaintance who've always made me feel nervous and awkward. Plus, I lost my glasses in a car that might have been a DeLorean.

Well, so it goes . . . dream life and waking life are both imperfect, but at least in the awake version I've got my glasses on.

Yesterday was the neighborhood's annual yard-sale extravaganza, and Tom loves yard sales, so we spent most of the morning trudging from one to the next. We ended the morning with takeout bagels and lox, which we ate in a small park under falling apple blossoms. And then in the afternoon we accomplished two yard chores that I've been longing to get done: repairing our water-damaged outside table and repairing the leaking birdbath.

You may recall that I rescued that birdbath last summer from the side of the road. It's always had a slow leak, but this year the leak increased so that it hasn't been holding water at all--a great disappointment for the local mockingbird, who keeps trying to bathe in it. So Tom mixed up some cement and patched the cracks, and I undertook the table repairs. Though I'd tarped the metal table over the winter, water had gotten in under the covering and damaged the finish. So, under Tom's tutelage, I scraped paint, sanded off the rust, and then spray-painted on a new coat, and now the table looks better than ever. I'm quite pleased with myself.

Thus, we had a busy outdoor day together, and in the evening, as the rains came on, we sagged companionably on the couch with the windows still open, and, you know, I just really like hanging out with that guy, even when we're half asleep.

***

And now Monday again. This will be a busy week for me as I have tons of editing to do, plus I've got to drive to Vermont on Thursday to see my family. In the meantime: an update about the Conference on Poetry and Learning at Monson Arts. I've got just one opening left; so if you or anyone you know might be interested, please reach out to me ASAP.

Most of you have been reading this blog for a long time, so you know the history of the conference. Its first iteration, the Conference on Poetry and Teaching, was founded by former Maine poet laureate Baron Wormser, who led it for a decade at the Frost Place in Franconia, New Hampshire, before handing it off to me. I then directed it at the Frost Place for another decade before moving to Monson Arts last summer.

While I'll always miss the Frost Place, the move to Maine has been so good in so many ways. Instead of strictly running a teaching conference, I've been able to morph it into a conference for poets and teachers and to broaden the scope beyond poetry into collaborative interactions with other artistic disciplines. Also,  Monson Arts is a wonderful setting--a gorgeous lakeside campus, excellent facilities, top-notch food, and an extremely supportive and capable staff and administration.

Conference registration is strictly limited to 15 participants so that we can keep the sessions intimate and intense. This year my dear friend Gretchen Berg, a poet and physical theater specialist, and her partner, the dancer Gwyneth Jones, are serving as faculty. We've got participants coming from Texas, Florida, and New Jersey, as well as throughout New England. Many of these participants are top-notch poets in their own right.

If you are at all interested in close collegial work with teaching artists and serious poets, in exploring alternative approaches to revision in your own work and/or with students at all levels, and developing a larger network of friendship, I hope you will consider it. This conference is a labor of love for me, in a deep and essential way. I want to create the kind of place I never had when I was young. I want to open a space for community in all of its emotional and intellectual richness.

And if you can't attend yourself but have the ability to support another participant, please consider donating scholarship funds. I've got several interested educators who don't have any school funding, and my own sources have run dry. It would be wonderful to be able to bring one of them to Monson.

In July 2017, when we first laid eyes on this house, we knew instantly that it had a lot of problems, inside and out. But the asking price was relatively low, and we had skills. Tom thought he could deal with the inside issues, and I thought I could deal with the outside issues, so we took the plunge.

Most of the yards in this neighborhood are tiny, but this one was comparatively large, with a south-facing front and a shady back. But it was in dreadful condition, especially the backyard, which was a barren waste littered with dog droppings. Yesterday I went back to look at the real estate photos, and they were just as hideous as I remembered--bare dirt, weedy tufts, trash strewn along the fence line. It was an eyesore.

When I was outside in the drizzle yesterday, tucking transplanted bits of sweet woodruff, Japanese grass, and miniature iris among the maple roots before the heavier rains rolled in, I thought about the ugly yard I'd first seen eight years ago. There's stil so much to do on this place, inside and out, and of course the plantings aren't close to maturity yet. Yet instead of a grim wasteland, there's the promise of arbor. Pale woodruff blossoms shimmer against the grass. Viburnum and smoke bush and Japanese maple unfurl their tender leaves. A clematis climbs a trellis. Chairs gather. A clothesline drips with rain.

Once this place was charmless. Now it has a quirky, homemade, unfinished beauty. It is enthusiastic and imperfect, and it looks exactly like something made by me.

Another foggy morning, but the air is much cooler than it was yesterday. Clearly showers are on the way, and just in time: the gardens get thirsty so quickly. Between work and a zoom meeting I managed to mow grass--for the third time this week. In the damp weather it's been growing at fairy-tale speed, and the reel mower can barely hack through it. But at least it's a semblance of a lawn now. Then before dinner I thinned the new greens sprouting in the garden boxes, and we had our first homegrown salad of the season--miniature arugula and spinach tossed with violet leaves and blossoms . . . only a handful for each but so tender and fresh.

I'm ready enough for a showery weekend. Of course I always have a hard time staying inside, so I'm sure I'll be out in the mist, transplanting a little, weeding a little, walking in the rain. But the big jobs are done--grass managed, seeds sowed, mulch hauled--and I can putter and dream.

Yesterday's zoom confab with Teresa and Jeannie was particularly rich. We'd each brought in a draft we'd been working on; and as Teresa said, each poem was so extremely characteristic of its poet. Jeannie wrote about divination; Teresa wrote about Jersey City; I wrote about a brook. The poems were our mirrors.

The way the three of us talk about poems: I can hardly describe how it happens, because I don't understand how it happens. But we never workshop, we never boss. No "Fix this sentence" or "That line doesn't work." We just get excited about the poems and suddenly, as the two of them talk, a clarity comes over me . . . "what if?" . . . "I wonder" . . . "oh, oh, oh!"  Their conversation makes magic.

So this morning my thoughts are hugging my brook poem--stroking its stanzas and line breaks, tenderly tracing its surges and repetitions. I will make changes, I will keep re-seeing, but I love it so much more than I did yesterday morning. Now it is like a beloved small son, rubbing his eyes as he wakes up from a long sleep.

Those are the kind of poet friends I have. They offer me my own work as a gift.

The fog was creeping in from the bay as my friends and I drove home from our poetry evening, and this morning the neighborhood is shrouded in mist--maples, houses, lilacs, cars, and also my two lines of very damp laundry, which got caught in a rogue shower yesterday afternoon and are now drenched in cloud.

It's Friday, and I'm looking forward to spending the entire weekend with Tom. We had thought of going for another canoe jaunt, but the weather doesn't look promising. So I don't know what will transpire instead. I'm just happy I won't be away from him.

In the meantime, there's today.  I'll drag the recycling to the curb, I'll go for a walk, I'll wash the sheets, I'll work on my editing job, and later this afternoon Jeannie, Teresa, and I will talk about poem drafts and what we're reading and thinking about, and it will be a good ending to a wistful week.

Wistful, shrouded, cloud . . . rogue, caught, drenched. The words fill with air, they tug at their sentences, their frail strings snap and away they float, bobbing against fences, bumbling into branches and power lines, then suddenly reaching open sky, eddying into wind, riding the current, taking on speed, and with a swirl they vanish.

Once my Monson school year is over, my days get exponentially quieter. Some days I talk to no one other than Tom, and during the work week he is out of the house from dawn till dusk. That's not a problem: I've long known how to fill my own time and thoughts. Still, a break is tonic: and this morning a friend from the homeland will swoop down for a visit, this evening I'll go out to write, tomorrow I'll spend a zoom afternoon with Jeannie and Teresa, and solitude will enjoy a little ripple in its waters.

I dreamed last night of my older son as a toddler--his ear-to-ear grin, his chatter, his duck-fluff hair . . . such a happy dream, and I am still basking in the pleasure of his company.

Outside the air is mild and still. The upstairs windows are open, and I can hear an Amtrak train spin past, clanging its bell. I can hear a low highway rumble and a cardinal spilling song. In the kitchen T is slicing bread for a sandwich. The cat pads from room to room. The panes are squares of gray light.

Thursday means housework: bathrooms and floors to scrub, towels to pin to the line. I've almost finished rereading The Sea, the Sea. I've got lots of editing to do. I need to work on designing some new Poetry Kitchen classes. I'd like to figure out travel plans (T and I have decided to go to Chicago at some point this summer). I want to mess with a poem draft. But the day will take its own path.

Under this flat daylight, the garden murmurs . . . green and gold and white and rose, soil still dark with water. I have been struggling to find my way back into Keats's fold . . . to accept “uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason."  I'm making progress, but the work is never done. 

Town living has its luxuries--for instance, a bookstore around the corner, so we can walk out arm in arm to a poetry reading, then walk home under the flowering trees to fix an easy dinner. This neighborhood is domestic and sweet, and finally, after eight years, I know that I'm not a stranger anymore. The woods haven't faded, but that world isn't mine anymore. I live here, in this shabby midcentury cape, on this little arable plot, on a narrow curved street of staid old-fashioned houses, under these big maples, beyond the train tracks, a few steps away from the busy arteries of a small city, a few steps away from the North Atlantic tides.

Yesterday afternoon I finally caught up with my weeding (though, in spring, one never actually catches up with the weeding; it's an endless circle). So today, after work, I'll focus on re-sowing seeds that the squirrels dug up (sigh), setting up trellis strings for the scarlet runner beans, and other such fiddly tasks. The sunshine has been a treat: I've hung laundry on the outside lines every day; I've eaten my lunch in the garden and lingered on the stoop in the late afternoons. But the rains will be back later in the week . . . and they should be back: young gardens are so thirsty.

I'm nearly finished with Iris Murdoch's The Sea, the Sea. Now I need to turn my attention to Shelley; and to Christian Barter's new collection, which I bought last night; and to Chris Bachelder and Jennifer Habel's novel Dayswork, which I want to reread before the poetry conference.

Speaking of which: We've got just two spaces left at the conference. Please consider joining us. We've got a magnificent group of participants . . . including a nationally renowned poet, who, amazingly, is coming in not as faculty but as a colleague. I think the atmosphere will be particularly rich this year, and I would love to see you there.

I dreamed I went to a poetry reading and slept through the entire thing. Then I woke up and realized I'd actually slept solidly all night instead of blinking awake pointlessly at 3 a.m., which is my usual wont. A good result, really, but the catch is: this evening I'm going to a poetry reading by the same poet who was in my dream, and now I'm pre-embarrassed about sleeping through it.

Ah, serpentine shame--how it coils and tangles. No need to really do anything wrong. My brain will invent the appropriate scenario so I can feel guilty anyway.

This morning I'll be back at my desk, digging into a fat new editing project. Then in the afternoon I'll try to catch up on weeding and planting. Around the edges I'll go for a walk, hang laundry on the lines, deal with conference paperwork, and in the evening I'll go listen to Christian Barter read from his new collection. In print this sounds like a productive day and maybe it will be. But I am still wrestling with state of mind, trying to keep that day out in the canoe alive in my thoughts even as the glum wanders back in.

Glum is a precise word. It sounds exactly like what it is--a gluey cloud. 

Well, I am not generally a depressive. And I know I am not actually depressed now. I feel plenty of sunshine; I've got plenty of energy. I'm merely glum about a few things.

I am also not glum about a few things. Guess what? No more squirrels inside the bedroom wall! Guess what? An editor wrote to me about a submission and said, "This is one of the most beautiful poems I’ve ever read." How can I be glum in the face of such fortune? I am going to stop immediately.

After so many, many days of rain: this sky and this water. 

Brownfield Bog is just over an hour west of Portland, but even on a perfect day it is extremely quiet. The site not easy to access if you've got a car likely to bottom out on untended gravel roads; and though it's a state-managed wilderness area, it has no boat launch, no bathroom, no amenities or entertainments beyond itself. Yesterday we saw a couple of birders walking along the shore, a couple of kayakers out in the open water. For the bog, that's a crowd. Often we see no one at all.

What we do see, every time we go, is extraordinary animal life. We paddled down one of the marshy inlets and found a most magnificent beaver dam. Along the shore we saw an oriole, a veery. Geese couples gave us side-eye. A heron flew up from the grass. Swallows harassed a red-tailed hawk.

And we saw our first ever sandhill crane--a huge, red-headed bog stalker, with a wingspan of up to seven feet. I thought I might faint with happiness.

The day was so, so lovely. And to be outside, on the water, in the sunshine and the breeze . . . to be floating with Tom in the midst of such bustle and ripple--  Sometimes the world is very kind.

Yesterday's deluge was slow-moving, but finally, by late afternoon, the rainstorm lurched out to sea, and this morning the sky is vast and clear, a pale silver arch promising blue.

T and I have made plans to canoe today. Nothing surpasses a northern bog in spring . . . and just now is the ideal moment, when temperatures are still cool enough to keep the blackflies at bay, when the water is high and the birds are nesting and the muskrat families are dabbling among the reeds.

A canoe is so quiet in this world. It noses lightly into slow current, precise and delicate, not soundless but muted . . . hiss of bow, splash of paddle. To canoe a bog in spring is to enter into dream time.

This has been a strange and somewhat painful week. A week of recognition, of accepting sorrow. The sort of week we all have, often enough, often enough, the sort that each of us must flounder through in our own private, small-circle ways.

As perhaps you can tell from yesterday's post, I have been wrestling with the I of my own perceptions. I have been trying to inhabit a less self-aggrandizing self. Keats's mysterious negative capability . . . the yearning for an ever-deeper imaginative sympathy . . . this is the chime that tolls with such melancholy, such fervor. I will never become what I long to become, never write what I long to write, yet the work is all, the work is everything.

And so sorrow arises when the everything is wounded . . . scraped and slit and scabbed over, then the new tender scar scraped again. There is no protection from a cynic's bite. That is the way things are.

But today, in the chill of morning, my beloved and I will push off from a muddy bank and float slowly into sun-shadow, into ripple. An oriole may flash an orange wing as it flits from a cedar branch. A yellowlegs, lifting one foot from the silt, may cock an eye. Sky-road, water-road . . .  we linger on your brink in wonder.

Rain clatters on shingles, clinks on pipes, taps at windows, sighs a slow drip from the eaves. Rain news, various and plaintive, various and bossy, urges from every direction. There is no getting away from the headlines: RAIN. ALSO RAIN. RAIN CONTINUES. RAIN.

Vague first light unmasks the street gutter, a rain creek running downstream to the sea. Maples, laden with infant leaves, sag under rain. Grass shimmers and gloats--green and greedy, insatiable. "More rain, more rain!" screams the grass.

The house is a wooden box. Rain fingers rattle and shake and pry at the seams. Rain mutters, "How does this thing open?"

Meanwhile, lamplight. Growl of a furnace. Hot black coffee in a white cup. A Murdoch novel splayed on a table. Pale cat curled into a pale blanket.

Rain and rain. On the table a novel splayed. It is called The Sea, the Sea. All of the words demand their air today. Repeat, repeat. Say our name.

How to be a self and not a self . . . how to listen and wait and listen and wait. The hour is slow. Day opens her heavy eyes reluctantly. She was up all night on a rain bender. She hardly recognizes a self.

The Sea, the Sea remarks, "But supposing it should turn out in the end that such a love should lose its object, could it, whatever happened, lose its object?" Should lose its object, could lose its object, should lose its object, could lose its object . . . rain approves of sentences that are like rain. "Clatter and drip, clatter and drip," agrees the rain. "Why leave when you're already here?"

I dried clothes on the outside lines yesterday, my first chance in weeks, but no such luck today. It rained a bit overnight and another round of big downpours will start later this afternoon, just when I'm supposed to head north for the Monson kids' gallery opening. Right now I'm wondering if I should even go, which breaks my heart, but driving 300 miles in one evening in the pouring rain is starting to seem like a stupid idea. Well, I'll wait a few hours and see what's what before I decide. Blah.

On the other hand, yesterday I did plant tomatoes and peppers and eggplant, and transplanted lilies and iris into the front yard's patch-under-construction, and bought some some astilbe for the backyard, and weeded a flowerbed. And I was relieved to write with friends last night. And I was glad to come home to Tom. And today is Friday and I don't have to work either day this weekend, and on Sunday T and I will go canoeing in a bog.

I've got a small editing project on my desk, which is probably what I'll be focusing on this morning, but I would like to mess with some notebook scribbles. I suppose I ought to submit something somewhere, though I doubt I'll talk myself into that chore today. There are days when I say to myself, Never again. No more publishing. There are days when I say, Dawn, you're an idiot. They often overlap.

Fortunately Rilke keeps me on the path.

Paris, February 17, 1903

My Dear Sir,

. . . You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are disturbed when certain editors reject your efforts. Now (since you have allowed me to advise you) I beg you to give all that up. You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you [to] write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all—ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple “I must,” then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it.

May I always believe this--always, with my entire lurching heart.

Fog wraps the little northern city in an eiderdown. The fog is so dense that the neighbor's next-door roof is barely visible from my bedroom window. Something the color of fog is trotting up the sidewalk: it is my white cat, emerging from a prowl among the wet pink tulips.

Overnight, maple fluff has magicked into small leaves, a tender new canopy, fog-blurred. Fog smears every windshield on the street. Fog coils down the chimneys. Even inside the houses the air has a whiff of brine. The fog is the sea come a-calling.

I spent much of yesterday at my desk, but I did manage to finish that editing project, so today will be housework, poem work, and garden work before I go out tonight to write. I may even take a trip to the nursery for tomatoes, peppers, and basil seedlings. I think it's safe to plant the tender crops now. The weather is certainly not warm, but temperatures are steadily mild and the soil is full of welcome.

[Grievance sidebar: Gasoline-powered leaf blowers in triplicate, roaring and farting along the backyard fence in excruciating disharmony. I beg you: Do not own one. They are the worst.]

I'm still feeling a little blue, but oh well. The fog is also blue. We will be blue together.

For a change, it's not currently raining in the little northern city by the sea, though clearly it's recently been raining and most likely will be raining again soon. I like a wet cold spring and all, but a glimmer of sunshine would certainly be novel. Midafternoon yesterday I lit the wood stove just to cut the damp chill--dankness is creeping into the bones of the house.

Still, my new shrubs and transplants are delighted with the weather, and that's what matters. The rose, the elderberries, the flowering almond, the forsythia, the serviceberry, the viburnum--all are glowing. This may be wet weather for humans, but it is ideal weather for mitigating root shock.

Root shock is a metaphor waiting to be unrolled.

I dreamed last night that I was writing a poem called "Ambient Love." Awake, I can't decide if that's a ridiculous title or an interesting one.

This morning I'll go for my walk and then finish an editing project, and then I might run a few errands, and then maybe I'll get outside and do some muddy weeding in the backyard beds. Or maybe, if it's still raining, I'll try writing a poem titled "Ambient Love" that also features root shock.

I've had a few hard things happen this week, a few root shocks, the regular sort of painful things that every old child stumbles into. I could use some ambient love. I'll send some your way in case you could use it too.

Late in the day T arrived home from his long weekend in the north, truck-weary but very happy, and the cat and I were also very happy, and we all spent a cozy evening returning to our regular little habits and affections. I made a welcome-home steak dinner, T chattered about what he'd seen, the cat sat in the middle of our card game--everyone enjoyed the homecoming.

Now, this morning, we're lurching back into our workaday schedule. Outside it is, of course, raining, and the birds are singing wildly and tulips are glowing in the mist and the thick grass is as green as paint. I have some hopes of weeding flowerbeds this afternoon, but not very many hopes. This rain is perpetual. Still, I refuse to be dampened--at least my spirits refuse to be dampened. The rest of me has no choice. It's a walk in the rain or no walk at all. And for my particular body, no walk at all is always the wrong answer.

I've got editing to work on today, and a conference syllabus to tweak, but no more high school classes to prep until September. With that routine gone, my schedule feels airy, untethered. I do have to drive to Monson on Friday for the kids' gallery opening, but a friend and I are going to motor up and back in one day and trade off on the driving--tiring but that means we can have a full weekend at home. Given that I've worked three Saturdays in a row, I am highly relieved that she's helping me have this option.

Meanwhile, dishes, laundry. Meanwhile, sweeping the floors. A mockingbird splashes in the bird bath. An olive-yellow warbler flutters down into a flowerbed, alighting next to a scarlet cardinal. A pileated woodpecker wails in the trees. The first iris, deep purple velvet, unfolds beside the stone wall.

When it wasn't raining yesterday, it was drizzling, and when it wasn't drizzling, it was misting, but I had no choice: the day was my only chance to get some big garden jobs done. So I spent the day wet--wet sneakers, wet work gloves, jeans smeared with mud--and moved twenty or so wheelbarrow loads of semi-rotted maple leaves to a corner of the front yard that I'm working to reclaim to flowerbed. Once, many owners ago, someone planted that section, but subsequent owners neglected it and eventually someone feebly attempted to return the plot to grass. But there are so many tree roots in the area that I can't dig up the so-called sod or the long-embedded weeds. The only choice is to smother it with mulch. So I weeded, and deep-mulched, and transplanted some lilies and creeping phlox, and now the corner looks so much neater and, fingers crossed, I'll never have to mow that dumb thin patch of grass again.

The fatal flaw of gardener logic: "I don't like mowing so I'm going to turn the grass into garden and give myself exponentially more work."

After I finished the mulching project and took a tea break to talk on the phone to my sons, I dragged out the reel mower and hacked my way through the grass I am not turning into garden--a thick, green, sodden job, but rain is forecast for the rest of the week, so if not now, when? And then I did a bit of shrub pruning and weeded out another round of maple seedlings. There's still lots more weeding to do, but that's always the case in spring. At least the big jobs are done. The place is looking pretty good, and I'm not even a bit achy this morning. Thank you, winter exercise regimen. You may be dull but you keep me chugging.

Late in the day, after I'd cleaned myself up, I took part in a zoom meeting, an invitation from the poet Patricia Smith, who has proposed organizing a collective of older women writers. I got onto this invitation list because I worked with Patricia at the Frost Place, when she taught at one of our virtual conferences during the pandemic. It was interesting, sitting in on this first conversation among more than thirty aging women writers from around the country, most of them strangers to one another. Some names I recognized; others were new to me. Some were poets; many worked in other genres. Several spoke of extreme loneliness, the sense of marginalization, the need to find other women writers with whom they could share non-writing-centered conversations about their lives.

I've been lucky in that regard. I have an existing cadre of women friends--from central Maine, from Portland, from my broader writing life--who regularly have these kinds of conversations. But the women on this zoom call were from all over the United States. A few are quite well known. And all are hyper-aware of the intersections between their creative longings, their aging bodies, and the ways in which they are perceived or overlooked in the world. I found the conversation extremely moving: the eagerness, the desperation to find solace in one another.

I'm not sure where this collective is headed, or whether I'll stay involved over the long term, but I'm interested in what might happen. I'll keep you posted.

Even as the cherry trees reach full blow, they are also visibly fading. Slowly, constantly, inexorably, petals drift down from the laden branches, collecting on sidewalks and road and grass--an etude framed in rose, time dressed in its church clothes. The fete is brief, just a day or two, and it is insanely beautiful.

Now, in morning's dim and watery light, I look up at the vase on my mantle--four blossoms: a creamy tulip, a coral tulip, two buttery narcissi. Perhaps I am uncommonly affected by flowers, but again and again they overwhelm me. Their exquisiteness is also a sharp and sensuous poignancy--so frail, so tough, so fleeting, so eloquent . . . the brevity of perfection--color and shape and drape and curl and scent. And I love them also because they are, for me, entirely voluptuous. I don't eat them; I don't transform them into salves and tinctures. All I do is look at them and smell them and stroke them and gather them. They offer me nothing but pleasure.

I was thinking about this in class yesterday . . . that acknowledging our deep and sensuous affections, whether for homeland or child or lover or book or flower, is exactly what gives us both the strength and the material to defy the machinations of evil. During my Thursday night writing group, a friend shared a memory of her now-grown son--a brief image of how the tiny child would grasp her thumb to stay upright--and somehow that solid, physical, sensory recollection sent a shiver over the entire gathering . . . yes, this, exactly this, this is what our bodies long to hear.

I woke to fog wafting in through the open bedroom window. This seaport town has the best fogs--briny and dense, a joy to nose and skin and eye (as long as I'm not trying to drive anywhere). To lounge warmly in bed, breathing in the salty dampness, air as blurry as thoughts: really, it's the nicest way to wake up. And then, stretching, standing up, pulling up the shade, gazing out into the foggy street--the white-blooming serviceberry coiled in mist, rosy tulips glistening in cloud, bright grass soaked in dew . . . My eyes are so happy all of the time. How I adore spring.

Now here I sit in my familiar old couch corner, listening to the cat patter upstairs to his chair by the open window. I've brewed a full pot of coffee all for myself, which may turn out to be a bad idea but feels delightfully reckless at the moment. Tom has sent me a comical photo of the purple linoleum in his motel room. Outside a bluejay is squawking. The coffee table is stacked with books. The couch blanket is tucked around my knees.

Yesterday I pulled out the wintered-over spinach--not a large crop but enough for a big fresh salad tonight--and planted cilantro and dill, carrots and fennel. Peas are up; spinach, lettuce, and arugula are up; the perennial herbs are sprouting--sage, oregano, lavender, mint. Parsley and lovage seedlings are glowing. The new serviceberry shrub has blossomed; the new flowering almond is bursting into pink. Things are pretty lively here at the Alcott House, what with so much coffee and flowering.

I'll be in class all day--another round of my political poetry session--and by the time I finish, rain will likely have moved in again. But tomorrow, rain or not, I've got a big digging project to continue. I've got poem drafts to work on. I've got books to read. I've got a wood stove to light when the evening chill comes on. This is my favorite sort of writer's retreat . . . the retreat into my own private delights.

But how hard it is. The sorrows tumble down, ice and wailing and sharp stones.

For more than a year T has been planning a photo trip into Aroostook County, and all spring he's been watching the weekend weather and sighing heavily as one rainstorm after another barreled across the state. But finally, this weekend, he's found his opportunity, and today, after work, he'll head north for a few days alone with his camera.

So Mr. Ruckus and I will hold down Fort Alcott. I'll be teaching tomorrow but otherwise have no particular plans, other than a couple of dinners out with friends. I've embarked on a big digging and mulching project in one corner of the yard, and I'll probably do some planting. I'll argue with the squirrels who've been carousing in my flowerpots and biting the heads off my tulips (though thank goodness they are no longer living inside our bedroom wall--a very unpleasant few weeks we had with that, until they decided it wasn't a good nesting site and T was able to board up the hole). I'll read and write and cook for myself and listen to baseball, and I hope I'll do a lot of sleeping, and I know I'll think happily about T being happy. Perhaps it's odd, but we are a pair that thrives on reunions. We like knowing that the other person is out doing something in the world. We like the sensation of being temporarily unyoked. We like sending each other little newsy updates. We like welcoming each other home. These days I'm mostly the one who's on the road and he's mostly the one who's staying home, so switching roles is also tonic. He's glad to be lighting out for the territories. I'm glad to be standing in the dooryard waving the dishtowel.

Yesterday went really well--just the right amount of happiness and elegy. It felt good to have ended so successfully; it felt sad to know that these kids, for whom I have so much affection, are walking out of my life and into their own. They, too, felt all of this mixed happiness and sadness--sadness also for losing this peer group they'd made together, these fellow writers who'd helped them discover themselves

We spent the morning with a make-your-own-show project. I broke the group into in three sections, gave each a newspaper article containing peculiar information, and then said, "Okay, you're inventing, writing, rehearsing, and performing a new piece that arises in some way from the information in your article." I broke down their tasks into timed segments, but I in no way told them what or how to create. My only constraint was that their performance could not mirror the article: they had to begin and end their stories in different ways, and they had to imagine their characters via monologues. The whole project took two hours, and the results were spectacular. The kids were completely engaged, excited, inventive, focused: I was thrilled. It was such a good way to end the year . . . with the young people in charge of their own minds, with the young people collaborating to make wonderful new things.

Afterward several of them spoke about how much they'd enjoyed learning to collaborate. This makes me so happy. I know that schools promote group work, but often it involves predictable results, and often the groups aren't truly collaborating but are depending on one or two students to drag the rest of the group along behind. Real collaboration is a different story, and it's not easy. But after a year of incremental training (lots of generative projects involving groups, pairs, and the whole class; lots of guided conversations about work-in-progress), these kids got very comfortable about sliding into creative situations together. Yesterday's crazy, spontaneous performances were a real joy--100 percent goofy smart teenager, just as they should have been.