Sorry about the late post, but I had to get P to the bus station by 6 a.m., so the morning has been hectic. Finally, however, I'm getting my chance to slow down. The kitchen is clean, the floors are swept, the bins are empty, the clean laundry is folded, the first load of many loads of dirty laundry is churning, the bed is made, the kitten has breakfasted, my boys have been kissed goodbye, and I am at leisure to curl up in my couch corner with a cup of tea.

Our whirlwind trip to the north was excellent, on all fronts. The class went great, spending time with my kid is always the best, as is hanging out together with old friends in the homeland. The driving conditions were decent enough, and now I am home again for a spell--with a lot of obligations but also some quiet.

This morning I'll take a walk in wet fog, then dig into the big new editing project that showed up in my inbox while I was up north. I'll deal with the laundry mountain. I'll make a jelly roll with a friend's homemade marmalade, and I'll invent a poem prompt. Tonight I'll go out to write with my poets.

Hovering over me is a small raincloud of loneliness, the familiar small cloud that always thickens whenever I have to part from either of my children. Their company is such a delight to me, such a miracle.  But I'll be in New York next month; I hope to be in Chicago in May. Till then the small raincloud is a kind of comfort. A greening. A fragrance of soil and stone.