Well, weekend reading number 1 is in the books--a genial gathering of poets and musicians in Kittery (which is technically in Maine but feels like seacoast New Hampshire), including one of my oldest poet friends, Meg Kearney. Now today I'm heading north and inland for weekend reading number 2 at the Bailey Memorial Library in Winthrop (a town that is definitely in Maine), where I'll split the bill with another Portland poet, Mike Bove.

It's pleasant to sit quietly this morning, looking out at the few fat raindrops spattering the walkways. I know there will be a lot of protests around the country today, none of which I can attend because of this long-scheduled reading. But there's more than one way to lift a voice, so why not a poem instead of a sign? Shelley would agree.

The vases on the mantle are filled with white roses, white peonies, golden yarrow. The house is dim under rain-light and maple-light. Kitchen counters and tiles gleam vaguely in the gray-green ether. The rooms feel small, fragile. This is a house built of sticks, and a wolf could blow it down.