Briefly, the air machine has hushed and the windows are open. Outside, the stillness of early morning: a snatch of birdsong, a distant train whistle.

The weekend, though miserably hot, was sweet. T and I went into town for oysters, and then dawdled in a pop-up store devoted to cookbooks--early editions, arcana and oddities (as in How to Cook a Slug), a number of featured collections that we already own and use regularly which made us feel smug, and several that we longed to own. I treated myself to an encyclopedic volume titled The Nordic Baking Book, which is filled with recipes for Scandinavian breads, porridges, pancakes, and buns, along with the histories of regional flour preferences, baking and leavening styles (Icelanders like to bake in volcanoes, apparently), and rumors (was bread ever rolled in sawdust before cooking? the author is unsure). Meanwhile, Tom fidgeted over a tome on fermentation, but restrained himself, at least temporarily.

Al fresco dinner was green bean and lettuce salad, cold escarole and rice soup, and a duck banh mi we brought home as a treat. The Sox roared happily into the All Star break. We ate lemon custard with blueberries for dessert. I finished the novel I was reading. We had a cheerful day together, and now it is Monday.

Slowly I am reacquainting myself with my duties. Today I'll return to my exercise regimen. I'll do some planting. I'll do some housework. I'll alert the press I work for that I'm ready to take on another copyediting project. I'll schedule an upcoming class. I'll read conference evaluations. I'll grocery-shop. I'll try out a recipe from the new cookbook.

I still feel the aftereffects of a long intense week of poetry immersion: still unsure of my footing in the regular world, a bit convalescent. But I am glad to be home . . . to be welcomed home.