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.