Well, here I am, finally: ensconced in ye olde couch corner, wrapped in my dopy red bathrobe, my cup-and-saucer of black coffee at the ready, cheerful Big Kitten peering out the window at sparrows, T upstairs clanking his cup down onto his saucer, then burrowing back under the covers. Home and its pedestrian delights . . . all three of us are very glad to be enjoying this Saturday morning love song.

The transition from Sarasota to this moment was a little rocky. We got home so late on Wednesday, then had to rip ourselves out of bed so early on Thursday, both of us rushing off to our individual versions of work. And then I barely slept in Bangor--too keyed up about too many things, but mainly the adrenaline of performance. I think the Poetry Night event went well: the teachers were very responsive to the prompts and conversation, and then I had the pleasure of dinner out with a pack of Monson Arts friends. But my body was jangled from travel and strange hours and on-stage nerves and missed meals. Also, I hadn't actually been alone for a week; and though I am sociable, I am thrive best on regular doses of solitude. So I was kind of a mess.

But in retrospect, this was an unprecedented experience: to spend a week working so closely with such incredible friends and artists; to be with Tom the whole time, instead having to leave him; to then bring that energy with me back to my workaday world of Maine teachers and schools and young people and poems. I'm so grateful to the people of Sarasota who funded us, to Teresa for making it happen, and to the English teachers of Maine who welcomed me back into the fold.

I am also grateful for a weekend at home. I'll be grocery-shopping and doing housework and catching up on desk business and prepping for class and such. And I hope to walk and loll and finish the Elizabeth Bowen novel I've been trying to read for days. And Chuck will require plenty of Chuck time: he is overflowing with family joy.