It's really cold again this morning, but that's supposed to be a temporary condition. I hope so: 30s in mid-April is too Maine for me.

Because I'm optimistic, I think I'll plan to hang clothes on the line, and also plan to do the planting I couldn't bear to do yesterday. Probably I ought to mow grass too. Spring-winter is such a weird season. 

This morning I'll finish editing a chapter and send it to the author, then work on some Frost Place stuff, take my yoga class, and possibly amuse myself by whipping up a torte or cream puffs. I'm in the mood for frivolity. And I'd like to do some writing too, maybe even outside, if the weather agrees to be less like Antarctica today.

But the wind is so bright: and the gulls fly in broad triangles against the scudding clouds: and the cardinal sings and sings and sings: and the pink trees are dressed for the debutante ball--