I've just returned from dropping T off at the bus station. And now, at 6:15 a.m., the day stretches out before me. Sheets grind in the washing machine; windows welcome in birdsong. In a few minutes I'll step out for a walk--wandering through the mild city streets, through the cemetery, green and blossomed, speckled with solemn, and comical, and pretentious, and heart-tugging monuments, stony messages from citizens who once, long ago, stepped out, on a morning in spring, into this provincial seaside town.

I will miss T, of course. I adore being with him. But there's something lovely, too, about these four days ahead of me . . . four days spent tending no one but myself. I'll work, I'll cook, I'll walk, I'll idle, I'll sleep. I'll do nothing earth-shaking--nothing, really, that I couldn't also do with T in the house. Nonetheless, there will be a spaciousness--as if I'm stretching out alone in a big bed, arms and legs splayed like a starfish.

I spent much of yesterday honing plans for next weekend's Poetry Kitchen class. Today I will start a new editing project and do some teaching conference prep. I'll clean the downstairs rooms, hang sheets and towels on the line, maybe do some gardening, though I've got the whole weekend ahead for outdoor things.

My brain feels busy but settled: secure in itself, confident. In the zone, as they say. I feel as if a big poem could be gestating, though I have no idea what it might entail or when it might spill out. Four days ahead of me: a draft could erupt at any time . . . I could be overrun . . . in thrall . . . bewitched. I am waiting to see. I am hoping. But I will not rush myself.

In the meantime, the air is filled with the scent of lilacs. Irises are unfolding in the garden. I have filled vases with fresh flowers . . . bluebells, yarrow, chive blossoms. The world is good enough, for now.