Yesterday it was 84 degrees in Portland, so to celebrate I lugged the fire tools and the woodbox to the basement. That means no more wood fires until September, and I hope my optimism about summer isn't misplaced.

The day was beautiful, though--sun and clouds and a swirling breeze; every window open and the garden sighing in pleasure. It was easy to believe that summer was real.

Today is supposed to be cooler but still balmy. I've got a few desk things to work on, but I should still be able to spend some time in the flowerbeds before I leave for Kittery. I've started reading Annie Proulx's Barkskins, a massive tome about French-Canadian settlement. I've got a stack of poetry books I need to read before I meet with Teresa and Jeannie next week. And I've got these back-to-back poetry events to finish prepping for. But the weather is so alluring. It's hard to keep my mind on words.