I woke this morning at the regular time but the clocks say I stayed in bed till after 6 so, okay, let's call it sleeping late, but whatever the time the sky is wondrous, a chill pale blue flecked with gulls soaring up from the cove, and the winds have died down, so now the quiet air smells of cold soil and cold salt, half-melted ice piles glisten under new sunlight, and inside the house the furnace grumbles, the cat crunches chow, a thread of steam rises from my coffee cup . . . it is Sunday morning, it is March in Maine, the little house crouches among its dim little gardens, where at the edge of the snow a hellebore, the lenten rose, dormant all winter, is beginning to uncurl its thick stems and lift its heavy buds toward the sun.

If I say I'm tired, I only mean I'm human. My mind ticks off its little tasks for the day . . . buying groceries, cleaning bathrooms, watering houseplants, hanging laundry. If I say I'm sad, I only mean that the earth is so small and space is so vast.