I know this is obvious, but I'm still always amazed at how restorative a full night's sleep can be. I went out to write last night, came home to visit a bit with Tom, then sank into a deep, unbroken slumber, filled with dreams about slowly riding a rusty tandem bike by myself through what appeared to be a giant cornfield. These were singularly un-anxious dreams: just me, poking along on a barely held-together bike, without any particular goal or intent. Possibly this could be a metaphor for writing poems. Possibly it could be a metaphor for me. Either way, I'll take it over those dreadful guilt-shame-worry dreams.

This morning: recycling to the curb, sheets in the washer, exercise class on the floor of my study. I'll edit, mow grass, pull carrots and leeks, cook a French-style pork roast. And I'd really, really like to dig some first drafts out of my notebook. I haven't worked on a poem since the before-Covid times, and I wonder if I still know how.

This weekend will be extremely busy: I'll be overseeing a Frost Place zoom class on Saturday afternoon (a teachers' session on using the Poetry Out Loud program creatively in the classroom, led by Holly Smith). On Sunday I'll be driving upstate for a reading in Wayne. So I feel okay about stealing some of today for myself.

Outside, it's 39 degrees, our coldest morning yet. Summer is fading fast.