Yesterday was brutally hot: 99 degrees in Portland, the highest temperature I can ever remember experiencing in Maine. Yet the gardens managed to look enticing, and they kept me wandering from shut window to shut window, as if I were Rapunzel's mother peering out into the witch's backyard.

Periodically I ventured into the oven--hanging clothes, filling the birdbath, watering flowerpots. I even carried my breakfast and lunch outside into the "shade." But the enjoyment was all visual. This is a nasty heatwave, of the sort that feels life-threatening, and I hate that Tom has to work in it.

Today should be marginally cooler, but the heat won't really break until tomorrow. Still, I hope to get out for an early walk before shutting myself up again with books and housework. I wrote a terrible poem draft yesterday, but maybe I will have better luck today. And I did force myself to send out a couple of submissions.

This time next week I will be on the downslide to the conference. I can hardly believe it's happening again, though year after year it does--that intense miracle week; that work. I feel like my body is holding its breath, waiting.