I got a lot done outside yesterday--backyard mowing and trimming, and then a thorough weeding of all of the back garden beds; plus, I pruned and tied up tomatoes, pruned the privet looming over the sidewalk, transplanted sedum into a few bare spots in the back . . . probably I did other things too that I'm not remembering. And then dinner was risotto with wild mushrooms, escarole, garlic scapes, baby red onion, and basil; a big salad; and lemon custard and strawberries for dessert.

Today, some class prep; a trip to the fish market; maybe editing, if an author gets her manuscript back to me. I need to pick peas. I'd like to work on poems. I should weed the vegetable garden and stake some collapsing flowers. I finished the Oates novel and now I've started a collection of Louise Erdrich's short stories. I want to walk up to the library and pick up the book on hold for me: Percival Everett's James.

After days of rain, summer will flame up again today, and the gardens are lush with life, everything on the edge of wild--swelling, splayed, collapsing, overflowing. And yet it's not even July yet.