The little northern city by the sea is swaddled in a warm wet blanket of fog, and the birds are singing crazily, and summer is about to blossom. Today the climbing roses, loaded with buds, will explode into crimson glory. Today I'll open all of the windows and put on sandals for my walk to the dentist. Today I'll sit on the front stoop with a glass of ice tea and watch the neighborhood babies wave bare feet as their strong mothers shove strollers up the hill.

Yesterday I posted a new Poetry Kitchen class, "The Morality of Imagination: Writing into Other Lives," a two-day generative and revision session inspired by Shelley's "Defence of Poetry." Though registration's been live for less than 24 hours, the class is already half full, so you might want to sign up quickly if you're at all interested.

Meanwhile, I've been reading a couple of Le Carre novels I plucked from free piles and musing over how deeply sorrowful they are. I know I've said this before, but does anyone write better about loneliness? I am not a spy-thriller aficionado, but his writing moves me deeply. He is to his genre what McMurtry is to the western: a novelist who manipulates routine plot and style expectations in ways that draw the reader into a complex and painful relationship with character, landscape, history, and language.

Tonight, after a two-week hiatus, I hope to finally get back to my writing group. In the meantime, I've got the house to clean, and some desk work to handle, and that aforementioned dentist appointment to endure. And a summer day to love.