Today is my younger son's 28th birthday, and I wish him the sweetest of days in far-off Brooklyn. He is one of the great joys of my life, so full of feeling and thought, so wholehearted about what matters. He remains my most persistent phone caller, the family member most likely to get a poem read to him, a sports romantic, lover of rivers, whisperer of cats. How I adore him.

Yesterday I got a solid start on my two editing projects and, thank goodness, I finally finished the Baron essay and was able to send it to his wife for her okay. Today I'll run it past the rest of the contributors, and then I'll submit it to the journal editor, and then, I hope, I can take a deep breath and let myself off the hook. Writing that piece has been a massive undertaking. From the start I have felt unqualified, unready, unhappy, and also unable to say no. So I did it, and now there are twelve manuscript pages of shadow.

This morning I'll get onto my mat and return to my editing jobs, and in the afternoon I'll zoom with Jeannie and Teresa. I'd like to think I'll finish the manuscript commentary today, but we'll see. That kind of focus can be slow work. The press sent me one of Baron's author letters to show me how he was thinking and talking about the collections he edited, so in that regard I am still carrying his weight, even without the essay around my neck. But I guess that is my job right now.

Anyway, the sun will shine. Little Chuck will sit at the open front door watching the leaves blow. I'll pour tea and read Virginia Woolf over lunch. The Carolina wren will sing in the bare lilacs. Far to my south a hurricane will shred lives. The abyss is difficult to fathom.