I've barely fallen back into a home pattern, and now here it is, practically the end of the week, and I have so much work left to do.

The editing project is slow slow slow. I am pushing forward, but in a lugubrious, snail-like manner that annoys me. I much prefer to be brisk. And though I feel as if I just cleaned those bathrooms and floors, that was actually a week ago, so my to-do list is packed with housework chores again.

Which is to say: I don't imagine I'll have a chance to play with poem drafts today, though I am hoping to go out to write tonight. And I'm really hoping to spend time outside, as the temperature is supposed to reach 50 degrees. I'm diddling about whether I ought to start watering my wintered-over spinach, or if it's too early to begin encouraging it. I still can't get used to the timetable of these southern Maine springs.

For the moment, I'm trying to keep my "get stuff done" frets in check. I'm drinking my little cup of coffee, and I'm wallowing in my couch corner, and I'm thinking about War and Peace, and I'm pretending that I don't have a calendar of duties unrolling before me: today, this week, next week, this month, next month . . . I just don't want to look at how many obligations I have ahead of me. Because I might faint.

But I should tell you about an upcoming class, which has just opened for registration--a three-week session for the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance: "Body of Work: Creating a Series of Linked Poems." It will be in April, on three Wednesday evenings, and I would love to spend those evenings with you.