For the moment the windows are open. This makes young Charles so happy: he loves to sit by the screen door admiring chipmunks and sparrows.

Overnight there were severe storm warnings for inland Maine, but I don't think the coast got much rain from the hoopla, though a thunderclap broke over Portland that was loud enough to wake the dead. That means I'll probably need to water the garden this morning, before today's squalid heat kicks in and I shut up the house and disappoint the cat.

The weather has kept me out of the garden, except for watering and quick harvesting. The beds are weedy, but there's not much I can do about that until the heat breaks. Instead, I've tried to focus on catching up on house chores--bathrooms, floors, laundry--and dealing with various errands. Yesterday I went to city hall and transferred my old license plates to the new car. I did a bunch of post-conference paperwork. I also encouraged myself to sit down and read--something I haven't been able to do much of for more than two weeks. I'm still working my way through Great Expectations, and I know that resurrecting my reading hours is the first step toward resurrecting my writing hours.

Recouping sleep is the second step. Last night, despite the thunder, I slept almost solidly from 8:45 till 5 a.m. This was after taking several little catnaps during the day. I know I'm behaving a bit like a convalescent, but so be it. Sleep is as important as poems.

And despite my doziness, I'm walking, I'm thinking, I'm getting stuff done. My wedding ring is back on my finger. Gloria sports her Maine plates. Pip is stupidly in love with cold-hearted Estella. I slice up cucumbers and toss a macaroni salad. A word slips in edgewise.

Parents and Children

Yesterday morning, I drove downtown to pick up my newly resized wedding ring, which hasn't fit me for years. My son is getting married this summer, and I want to wear my ring on the day he first wears his. 

Yesterday morning, on a Maine street 20 minutes from my house, licensed thugs killed a young father in his car. He was working legally in this country, had a social security number, and was not the official target of their hunt. According to bystanders, as he was dying, he was still explaining, I tried to stop. The murder took place in front of the man's daughter, who was wearing Bluey pajamas.

This morning I'm sitting in my old familiar couch corner, with my old familiar coffee cup, listening to Chuckie crunch up his chow, listening to a loud cardinal whistling in the maples, listening to the subdued hum of city traffic. I'm home, I'm home, I'm home, and very, very glad to be here.

The conference is always one of my favorite weeks of the year, but it's exhausting . . . so much work, so much focused attention, so much social immersion. This year was even more intense than usual: by the time the sessions began, the faculty had already been engaged in a week of hard rehearsal. So it's no surprise we're sapped.

And of course home doesn't imply rest. My to-do list is long: piles of laundry, conference-related chores,  hauling a box to the UPS store, going to city hall to get permanent license plates, picking up my repaired wedding ring, catching up on housework, dealing with my dry and weedy garden, figuring out meals, et cetera, ad infinitum, blah blah blah.

The slide from conference busyness into home busyness is kind of disheartening, but so go the days. I'm tired. I'm lucky. I'm tired and lucky. 

 Sunset, with bonfire and lake.

That's one of the fine things about this lake: sunrise and sunset are equivalently lovely. I will miss them.

Once the school year begins, my relationship with the water diminishes. I drive past it. I look at it through windows. But I'm not down on the dock, not paddling my feet in the water, not watching kingfishers chase and quarrel in the gloaming. And there's something about conversations by the lake . . . the comfort of dipping in and out of closeness, and then an eagle sails overhead and we all lift our faces to the sky.

I'll be home in my own bed tonight.

The sky is cloudless this morning, but a steady small breeze kicks through the trees, and mist feathers the lake. Even in a sweater, I'm a bit shivery out here on the deck.

Yesterday afternoon we had a few off hours. I ate ice cream. I paddled in the lake. I took a nap. Then I celebrated the participants at their poetry reading, danced ridiculously at the afterparty, and slept like a stone. So this morning my body exudes that particular tingly, soft self-satisfaction that only an orgy of lake water, disco, and a bed under an open window can provide.

That's one thing about this job: directing the conference is, without doubt, hard, hard work. But the place insists on itself, and summer by the lake is play.

Half an hour ago a torrent was sluicing from the cabin's metal roof, downpour churning up the lake. But the rain has settled into drizzle, and a solitary loon floats among the drops. In the photo he is the black speck in the center; my phone couldn't zoom in any closer.

Probably this is the same loon we saw last night before dark as we sat on the dock and dangled our feet in the water. He was close to us then, yet unfazed by our presence, intent on diving and eating. He was a ship, solid and supple, sitting low in the water, sleek black mast curving up from the pale surface.

Now, as I describe him, try to write his body onto this page, a mysterious wail arises. He is out there on the lake . . . body vanished; a mythic voice.

**

We finished our performance last night, and again the room was filled with audience. Some of the locals came to all three shows. It's hard to explain how meaningful this felt.

So today is a transition day: we work in the morning; then the afternoon is free, and participants will read in the evening, with a party afterward. Then, for the final day and a half, we move into a new writing project. It will be good to take a breath this afternoon, and then bring all of our attention into celebrating participant work.

There's something painterly about today's sky and water--perhaps the colors, perhaps the defined borders among the colors; I'm not sure.

Temperature-wise, it's a mild morning: heat is on the way, the air knows it, and I'm already imagining a swim.

Yesterday's performance of "Lake" was just as well attended as "Slate"--a few locals even came back: they said they wanted to know what would happen next, which is so gratifying.

Most moving to me personally, my friend Angela brought along one of my sons' teachers at the Harmony School. She taught a combined second- and third-grade classroom, so had each boy for two full school years. She knew them well. She knew me well because I was the school music teacher at that time. When I asked if I could bring poetry into her classroom, she welcomed me with open arms. My favorite memory is teaching the kids the sword-fight scene from Romeo and Juliet. I thinned speeches but I didn't change the language: the children had the real words in their mouth. I knew enough not to give 7 and 8 year olds actual prop swords; everything had to depend on physicality: entrances and exits and responses to verbal challenges. They loved it. I loved it. Their teacher loved it. That was a happy day for everyone.

And this summer my older son is getting married. The elementary school was so long ago. And his teacher came to listen to me read a poem about little boys playing baseball on the field outside the school. I feel a trembling. Of course I feel a trembling.