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.