I'm drinking coffee alone. Tom has been in Massachusetts for two days, helping James move out of his dorm room, and they will both be back to Maine for dinner. It has been beautifully raining all night. Peas are up, asparagus is ready to cut, and this morning, before the blackflies are fully awake, I'll walk down to the stream to pick fiddleheads. On his first night back in the sticks, the boy will get to eat a giant serving of one of his favorite foods on earth.
The other boy is still here . . . sleeping, of course. A purple finch idles at the feeder. The infant leaves are a deep wet green, and the air is heavy.
My short story has stalled, but only because I had to force myself to stop writing it. "No time, no time"--the wail of every writer on earth. I hope I will find my way back to it again. I think I will. I am constantly stopping and starting the western Pennsylvania project, and it is always waiting for me when I get back.
I am not a procrastinator. That is one thing I can say about myself. But I am always under obligation. In just over a month I'll be at the Frost Place, directing the Conference on Poetry and Teaching for the first time ever. Yes, I am a little nervous about this. Meanwhile, I slog away at The Conversation like a dwarf tunneling in a cavern. Editing projects hover, poised to drop their thousand-pound weights on my head. Grass and garden grow and grow and grow and grow. And then there's that pie-baking job I've taken on, and my daily 60-mile-round-trip chauffeur responsibilities, and . . . , well, argh. Sounds just like your life is my guess, except with different details.