It's actually cold in Portland this morning--52 degrees and I am wrapped in my red bathrobe and gratefully sipping hot coffee. Meanwhile, my garden reels. Fried on Tuesday, shivering on Friday: the plants are clearly struggling to cope with a 50-degree temperature swing.

Well, I did my best yesterday, weeding and watering and coddling, and maybe tomorrow's rain will be a balm.

With houseguests on the way today, that will be my focus: figuring out meals, making up the bed, and such. But I did dig a couple of not-dreadful drafts out of last night's writing prompts and might try to snatch an hour to revisit them. I've been writing badly all week so was greatly relieved to suddenly not be.

Still, poems cannot be first this weekend. My sister is not at all literary, and there will be no discussions of books or art, no holing up in our own corners with fat novels. We will be all talk and action, flailing our pikes on a rainy day.