Yesterday I dug dirt, hung laundry, went for a long walk with a friend, planted myrtle, harvested dandelions, listened to the Red Sox win their fifth in a row, invented goat cheese biscuits, rolled in the grass with the dog, read the stories of Alice Munro, raked up wood chips, mowed a patch of lawn, picked daffodils, crawled under the deck with a leaking garden hose, and swapped stories about wild turkeys.

Today I will finish up my Hopkins-punctuation chapter and possibly begin my Amy Lowell-detail chapter. It's just possible I might even write a poem, which I haven't done since February.

Speaking of punctuation and Hopkins, this is what he happened to remark in a letter to his friend Robert Bridges:

About punctuation my mind is clear: I can give a rule for everything I write myself, and even for other people, though they might not agree with me perhaps.

And this is what Elizabeth Bishop happened to remark about Hopkins:

His poetry comes up from the pages like sudden storms. A single short stanza can be as full of, aflame with, motion as one of Van Gogh’s cedar trees.

Just look at those commas.