The tiny diary-poem drafts are bursting forth, but so quickly that I'm suspicious. Still, I've now shown them to four different people, at least one of whom is not a fan of my writing, and all declare that I need to keep at it. So for now, the diaries and I will stay in harness.

The day is dawning blue, but rain is supposed to move in later this afternoon . . . a chance to catch up with housework, boil chicken stock, fiddle with new drafts. As my younger son pointed out over the phone yesterday, the whole family is on a creative binge. Tom is printing photographs; Paul is writing a play; James is working on a video installation; I'm writing persona poems. Art-making is a dominant gene in this family.

I did zero housework this weekend, other than laundry, so I guess I'll be catching up on that all week. But two whole days without rain: I couldn't resist spending them outside. I weeded, put in a few seedlings, sowed many kinds of seeds, moved some firewood, relaid a stone path, chit-chatted with neighbors, wandered acquisitively through a nursery. Meanwhile, Tom began measuring and cutting for the new kitchen spice cupboards. In Harmony he built us a beautiful shallow spice cupboard against the back of a chimney. These will tuck into the turn of a corner cabinet, so they involve much persnickety fitting. But he is nothing if not a persnickety fitter.

Today: back to the desk. I've got a stack of poetry manuscripts for copyediting, prize winners in a big contest. But the sky is waxing blue already. It's going to be hard to stay inside.

I ended up planting yesterday: not only beans but also most of my flower seeds--cosmos, nasturtiums, sunflowers, and some ornamental grasses.

The tulips are glorious this year; I never had nice ones in Harmony, so these are a surprise and a delight, and I can't resist spreading them all over the house.

But the gray skies continue to cling. Spatters of rain erupt and pass. The weather is so odd, such perpetual cloud. Perhaps this is what it's like in the Pacific Northwest, but I don't know: I've never been there.

In between my gardening stints, I'm still devouring novels. I feel like a bottomless novel pit, which is to say I'm reading like a book-drunk 12-year-old. Just like always, being a novel pig is both embarrassing and magnificent.

The green is becoming intense. Against the foggy sky enormous Norway maples crane their lacy arms. Single bright daffodils rise from a sea of scylla leaves. My eyes can't stop drinking in color.

But it's still cold. Windows are shut tight, and we've lit fires in the wood stove every evening this week, and I go for walks in hat and gloves. I'm anxious to plant beans and sunflowers, but the soil is too dank. So I just wander from window to window, staring out at the empty beds.

I've been reading a fat Robertson Davies trilogy: a reader's version of guzzling a dozen doughnuts at a sitting. I don't know why I'm glutting myself on busy, plot-driven, character-spewing novels while writing tiny spare poem drafts, but it seems to be the way to go, at least for the moment. I think my mind is weary: so much teaching and planning; worry over whether classes are going well, or will go well. The Frost Place conference is looming, I'll be co-directing another high school writing seminar this summer, my third 24PearlStreet poetry class begins in July, I'm teaching a day-long master class in Portsmouth in June, I'm starting to work out details for a three-day residency at a midcoast writing center for late fall, and then there's the giant Monson Arts project. . . .

I'm so grateful to have these opportunities, but they are a mountain too.

Another glowering morning in the 40s. For weeks we have been trapped in this chill cloudbank, yet somehow spring continues to unfold. Along the side streets redbuds are bursting into bloom. Much to my surprise, the sweet pea I planted last summer has re-emerged: I had no idea it was a perennial. Columbine rises in a swirl of tender leaves; the hydrangea and lilies are bright with new growth. I planted all of these last fall, so it's sweet to watch them take hold.

I spent a chunk of yesterday afternoon at the archive filling a notebook with diary source material. Here's hoping I have enough to play with for a few days. I'm happy to be writing again, but unsure about what this material will ultimately mean to me. It's like having a cupboard full of ingredients that don't quite add up to a cake.

Anyway, I should stop worrying.

Today: teaching and writing in the morning; a yoga class at noon; errands; an afternoon in the garden; an evening in the kitchen. A life of small things.

Rain again. It doesn't feel much like May out there. I'd like to plant beans, but the soil is nowhere near warm enough for that. Still, the trees are budding, the grass is green, there's no snow, and I don't always need to wear a hat. This is Maine, after all. I can't expect a Philadelphia spring.

Classwork in the morning, and then I'll set yeast dough rising for cinnamon buns (college boy care package) and walk up to the archive to spend more time with my diary mis-copying project. I spent an itchy and unsatisfying afternoon yesterday not figuring out how I might handle these pieces in any sort of future collection. In some ways that's jumping the gun, I know; but I want to open myself to any possible narrative or dramatic options, and for now everything feels muddy and impossible. So I guess I will force myself back into the present tense and just chug along with the individual drafts. They seem to be finding themselves without trouble.

In a cool spring the tulips stay crisp and sharp for a long time. I planted a lot of bulbs last fall, and most of them seem to have survived the squirrels. And in the gardens I'm resurrecting along the driveway, tulips squelched by years of neglect are suddenly appearing. Not all will bloom this spring, but their leaves are a sign of hope.

Today I'm teaching in the morning, but the rest of the day belongs to me. It's been months since I've had a long stretch of unstructured alone time, and yesterday's poem experiments felt like being six years old and eating candy before breakfast--greedy, joyous, and illicit. I've got a stack of editing on the way, so I'd best hurry up and gobble as much sugar as I can before the manuscripts arrive.