Spring has been in idiosyncratic fettle this week--one perfect day, the rest cool and moody, and now rain whispers against the dark windowpanes. Outside daffodils are opening, crocuses are fading, and forsythia bristles with fat yellow buds. The skies swirl with indecision.

Yesterday T came home from work with a scavenged dishwasher, a castoff from a client who is getting something better. I wonder what better entails because this one is way more chi-chi than any appliance we have ever owned. We wrangled the old one into the yard and shoved the new one into place in the kitchen, where it will sit uselessly until he has time to hook it up next weekend. Ah, foraging. How we both love it.

And now we have to turn our attention to travel. T has already packed all of his clothes and cameras and will leave for the island right after work. I've got to pull our supplies together, tidy up, get Chuck to the cat kennel, fetch our CSA order, and then hit the road by midafternoon. It will feel strange not to drive together, strange to part at the end of the weekend, when he will head north to the County and I'll head south to home.

I've written a couple of new drafts over the past week, and maybe I'll be able to keep that roll going this weekend. I worry that the distractions of the laureateship will hijack my writing focus, but maybe not--maybe the urge to make poems will be too strong. If babies didn't hijack my attention, possibly nothing will. Babies are the best hijackers I know.