Another morning spent chipping away at my Frost Place talk. Writing these pieces requires so much staring into space, so much slow floor pacing . . . it's a wonder I ever get anything down onto the page. Still, miraculously, the words, like snowflakes, do start to stick together, and something begins to take shape, though not always just what I expected.

This afternoon my friend Kerrin will stop by for a visit . . . the first time we've laid eyes on each other for more than two years. Paul will be frantically packing for his trip. Clover flowers will dot the grass, and a jaunty Carolina wren will flip her tail and carol, "Teakettle, teakettle, teakettle, tea!" On the clothesline, sheets and pillowcases will puff gently in a small wind. And I will have to start thinking of myself as a poet, as a person who engages with public life, as a teacher with something to do.