Such slipping.

Tonight, I am both empty and full, wakeful and exhausted. There is both more to say and nothing to say, the day having gone over largely to reading and thinking in concert with my young ones, guiding word choices and interpretations, fielding stress and confusion, administering confidence when possible, praise when deserved.

But the best part of the day: a drowning nap, this afternoon, on the couch in the window, under and in the breeze, the curtains drifting, the light swimming, enough coolness for a quilt, enough sun for forgetting one's dreams.

The coneflowers, the coneflowers: they are starting to show. We will have them for much of the summer now. They're hardy; even I couldn't kill them, even in my Ithacan garden of neglect. They came up summer after summer, wending their ways through the weeds, stretching their quirky glory into every available shaft of sunlight.

I don't think I've actually told you about the lilies in Gambier. They are everywhere, lining every yard and every campus green, it seems, and they are enormous. I have not loved them in past years; I may not love them now. But in tonight's early evening sun, they were diaphanous, shadowing over and into themselves, a powerful recommendation.