After three days of cold rain, the weather is turning. Today is forecast to be in the 70s, and the garden and the grass will explode into growth. I'll be back at my desk today, and I've also got a bunch of errands and house chores to deal with, but I really do hope I can find an hour to mow. If I wait too long, my little reel mower will be overwhelmed.

It's the first day of June: the month of roses, peas, strawberries, and peonies. Next weekend we've got another social extravaganza--dear friends from the northcountry arriving on Friday; Saturday morning spent with another dear northcountry friend; my beloved son James arriving on Sunday. In the meantime and in the midst, I've got to plan a conference, and finish an editing project, and start another editing project, and and and, etcetera, etcetera. But I feel ebullient. Everything will get done; everything is so exciting.

So this morning I'll hang a load of clothes on the line, and get to work on my editing task, and open all of the windows that don't face the street construction, and lug my copy of the Odyssey into the back garden, because it's summertime in this little northern city by the sea, and the grounds of the Alcott House are bountiful and blooming, and I am a middle-aged poet-housekeeper, and I do love being busy and alive.