Portland is enveloped in a haze of drizzle--thinner than rain, thicker than mist; more like quiet atmospheric tears than a definable weather event.

I spent much of my rainy Saturday in the kitchen--baking a cherry pie, making dough and then pizza--but I also worked upstairs on a poem draft, which this morning is pleasing me very much. Between showers I spread lettuce seed and transplanted nasturtiums. Last year's plants self-sowed plentifully, a big surprise: nasturtium seeds never wintered over in central Maine, but here in balmy seaside Portland they are regenerating like crazy. So I am moving dozens of seedlings to bare patches in other beds, and with luck they will take hold and bloom all summer.

Today I need to focus on packing for New York, always a challenge. I'll be dragging around my suitcase and backpack all day long on Monday--clumping up and down subway stairwells, trailing through crowds--so everything needs to be as compact as possible. Because I am not naturally good at traveling light, I have to find ways to force myself to be reasonable. For instance, last spring, before I took my big train trip to Chicago, I purposely bought a tiny purse and a too-small backpack. That approach worked pretty well, though nothing can make a suitcase easier to haul through the New York subway system.

If you happen to be in the city and are in the mood for poems, I'll be reading on Wednesday at the launch of the anthology Poetry Is Bread, at KGB on East 4th Street, 7-9 p.m. The book began as the poet Tina Cane's pandemic video project, She invited numerous poets to make videos for her during and after Covid, and then morphed those readings into a book. Lots of us will be in attendance on Wednesday, which at least guarantees a crowd of listeners.

Mostly, though, I am looking forward to hanging out with my kid, hanging out with my friends, bopping through museums and gardens, riding the ferry, trudging the streets, surprising myself.