Another hot day on the way, but not a drop of rain yesterday, I'm sorry to report. So this morning, again, I'll be watering and watering, doing my best to prevent this poor little plot from crisping into chips.

Last night I went out to the writing salon, and every prompt seemed to click into my pen and drive it down the page. "You are on fire!" marveled my friend Betsy, and I was embarrassed because I feel more like a perpetual faucet drip, but whatever the metaphor the fact is that I am back in the zone and I don't know why or how but the stuff keeps coming: call it tinder or call it a flood, but as you see I can hardly even slap end punctuation on a sentence.

Today maybe I'll get a chance to look at some of my poem-draft blurt, or maybe not. I've got a bunch of footnotes to deal with in my editing project, and then a bunch of Frost Place things to do, plus all of that watering, etc., so whatever poem work gets done will be ice cream at the end of a long afternoon.

"Do you maybe get where you're going because you hear those voices in your head?" asked Betsy. The answer is yes. Poet or crazy person: how can I tell the difference? It's possible I'm turning into my granny, which would be an interesting outcome. Worry if you see me smoking Luckies and wearing tattered house dresses over Liz Taylor-style slips and reducing my diet to a perpetual drip of saltines and weak coffee and shaking my skinny fist at the gods.