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.