This is the view from the bedroom window of the cottage: 6 a.m., low tide, clouds rolling out from Goose Cove into Frenchman's Bay. The temperature is 38 degrees, no wind that I can see. Spring is arriving slowly. My friend has filled the cottage with daffodils and forsythia, but the weather is not soft, though tomorrow is May.

In an hour I will walk up to the house and drink coffee and visit. For now Tom and I are lolling. We have no hard plans for the day. A hike somewhere. A nap eventually. And then I'll make mushroom soup for our friends and us. It is lovely to be so peaceable and unfocused.

In fact, I feel almost wordless . . . a sort of sleepy inarticulate pleasure that doesn't require framing, even rejects it . . . as if Why does describing matter? as if Just hush up and be. These are funny instructions for a poet, but then again: if my work life is shaping language, maybe my vacation life shouldn't be.

Or maybe I'll suddenly write a giant poem.

Well, I'm back . . . though the computer's webcam problem is not fixed, and the computer guys are scratching their heads and ordering new cables, and I'm going to be without the machine again. 

I hope your week has been interesting. Mine has been slow. Between the rain, the wind, the cold, and the laptoplessness, my activities have primarily involved chilly walks and much reading. While I was "gone," I finished the Aeneid, Baldwin's Go Tell It on the Mountain, Ishiguro's When We Were Orphans, McMurtry's Sin Killer, and half of Hazzard's The Bay of Noon. I wasn't joking when I said I had some time to read.

So today I'll catch up on all of the desk work I've let slide. I'll do some gardening, if the windy cold allows, and get ready for our weekend jaunt up the coast to our friends' cottage near Acadia. Next time I write to you, I'll be staring out into the cove, watching gulls and lobster boats. I can't wait.

I spent most of yesterday in the gardens: planting, weeding, cultivating, watering; also bagging sticks, restacking firewood, moving stones. There's still much to be done, but I caught up with much of it. As you can see, the garden boxes are thriving. I took the cold frame off the lettuce (front box), and in the back box you can see the enthusiastic garlic.

Tulips are opening everywhere. Above is a modern variety; below are two photos of species tulips: older, hardier varieties, often very small, with elegant colors and shapes. They thrive even in terrible soil, and the bulbs are long-lasting. 

And here is my newest hellebore, glowing outside my back door.

Today the computer (yet again) is supposed to go into the shop, so you may or may not hear from me tomorrow morning. Imagine me housecleaning and gardening and reading the Aeneid and cooking chili.
 

Yesterday's Poet's Table class was so refreshing: I was able to sit back and enjoy without being responsible for running the room, plus I got two decent pre-drafts out of Beth's prompts. The group was cheerful and engaged, and altogether it was an excellent afternoon.

Today I've got a few desk things to do this morning, but mostly I'm hoping to be outside in the garden. I've started cultivating beds, carefully, because not everything has sprouted yet. But the maple seedlings are taking hold fast, so they need to be squelched; and with the tulips beginning to open, the fluffed-up soil will serve as a showcase for their stiff beauty. I want to plant a second crop of lettuce and arugula; I need to do a little watering; maybe I should even mow grass. The garden needs me today, and I'm happy at the thought of all of my little duties.

Home again, thank goodness, thank goodness. I am so glad to be wrapped in my accustomed bathrobe in my accustomed corner, drinking my usual coffee from my usual cup. It's been a good trip all around, but little Alcott House and its inhabitants are glad to see me, and likewise.

Tom and I strolled down to our favorite restaurant for dinner, strolled home, listened to baseball, dozed on the couch. It was a highly middle-aged reunion, but delightful nonetheless.

Now, this morning, I am thinking lightly of laundry and groceries and yard work. I'll be attending the afternoon's Poet's Table session--and I'm looking forward to writing under Beth's guidance, after two weeks away from my desk. (If you'd like to join us, it's not too late, and it's dirt-cheap.)

Otherwise, the weekend can take its own course. Sunshine, mid-50s, and a garden in need of puttering. The Aeneid asking to be read. 

Another quiet day in Vermont . . . into town to grocery-shop with my mom . . . an afternoon of card playing with my dad . . . a walk through the fields . . . then I made dinner (salmon, asparagus, caramelized onions, roasted potatoes) and we watched a terrible Cary Grant movie called Mr. Blandings Buys His Dream House. This morning I'll be heading back to Portland with a small batch of vegetable seedlings (cauliflower, cabbages), eggs from their hens, an oregano plant . . . little tokens of country spring for my city homestead.

I've got a lot of work waiting for me, as per usual. According to T, the cat is in a terrible humor. Certainly I'll be happy to stay in one spot for a few days. I'm tired of being on the road.

It's a cloudy morning in western Vermont. The grass is patched with snow, though daffodils are brilliant along the house's sheltered southern face. Yesterday, as my mom and I walked the edges of the fields, we saw goldfinches spraying up out of the brush, their summer-yellow incongruous against the snowy backdrop. Green grass argued with a lowering sky. The season cannot make up its mind.

Today I expect the last of the snow will melt away. My dad has not planted anything yet, but his garden is tilled and ready. Maybe we'll have a chance to work outside, or maybe not. The air is harsh but milding, chill but shifting. Spring does not want anyone to make plans yet.