Yesterday was our first soft air of the season . . . shirtsleeves, open windows, no fire in the stove. And then rain all evening, so this morning I expect a glory of green.

After babying my eyes all day, I felt much better by evening. So today, after a round of editing, I'll start pulling myself together for our travels downeast--shopping, meal planning, and the like. One good thing about a visit to the cottage is the complete ease about outfits: work clothes, garden shoes, walking shoes, with a clean pair of jeans for going to the movies . . . nothing could be easier. Food is always the big focus, as these visits are one dinner party after another, in a kitchen that is not exactly primitive but is certainly not luxe. We'll order pizza one night, because the gargantuan sizing at Gott's Store makes us laugh. Otherwise, I am the camp cook.

One thing I might do at the cottage is submit a few poems. I've had some requests for submission--a rare event so I should probably take advantage of it soon. I'd also like to make headway on Aurora Leigh and get a few draft blurts out of my notebook and onto the page. Because of how school vacation falls this year, we don't have to tag-team our cottage visit with my Monson job, which will make these days feel more fully vacation-like . . . until some sorrow invades, as happens so often when we're there. We've spent a lot of time being sad in that sweet place.

from Desk Work

9 a.m. West Tremont. Goose Cove.

Sixty degrees in early winter, with a brisk warm wind.

The tide is high, the sea laps the cliff,

the sky is whitish-blue, like an old eye.

On the horizon Swan’s Island is a long lump of shirt

rolled for ironing.

 

How will I be this world?

[from Calendar (Deerbrook Editions, 2024)]