Home again, and glad to be here. But my class yesterday was so pleasant--kids working hard and with enthusiasm, choosing and typing up their final pieces for display. Though I always give everyone the option to focus on prose, this year's kids seem primarily to be writing poems, and they've got scads of drafts to sift through and think over. And they really do think: it is heartwarming to watch twelve kids studying their notebooks so intensely. We've got one more class to refine their final drafts--titles, punctuation, sound--and  then, essentially, our year is done--just one last session, which will probably be a create-your-own-script and-performance-from-start-to-finish whizbanger, a guaranteed day of silliness.

This morning I'll go out for a fast walk; then I'll work at my desk, eventually get a haircut, and this evening my poetry group will meet to see Terrance Hayes read at the University of Southern Maine. I'm happy to watch him, but I am sad we won't be writing tonight: I've missed the group for two weeks in a row, and I'm eager to get my habits back on track.

I've started rereading Philip Roth's American Pastoral, which is a difficult and dense and painful book that feels right to me just now. I may turn to Henry James next: apparently I am longing for complication.

Meanwhile, the weather shivers. Our snow has melted, but the air stays cold and there's more snow in the forecast for the weekend. Spring in Maine is a bouquet of dashed hopes. But I love it anyway.