T.

So many wonders on my mile walk to work:

--in a back yard, a large white teepee with painted symbols on the canvas
--a sandwich board on the parking strip with paper and pen for impromptu poetry
--a mother reading aloud to her two children in a front yard
--men pushing babies in strollers

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My tomato plants -- lush and green and nearly fruit-free -- have gotten away from me and now stretch out and down beyond their too-short stakes. And I don't care. We have so little sun this summer, it probably won't matter.

Every evening I try to spend a few minutes continuing my war against the morning glory. Alas. I'm not winning. It's an insidious (this week's word) pest, sending out runners from even a clipped stem, impossible to defeat. If I let it go I fear the house would soon disappear behind curling tendrils.

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Still attempting to fathom the "silent migraine" of Monday. My family doc and I agree it was a perfect storm of converging elements: not enough sustenance (lack of appetite), not enough shut-eye (lack of sleepiness), plus the surfeit of worries I'm attempting to eliminate from the daily lineup.

Things should ease come August, when the workload will lessen, and the memorial for my mother-in-law will be passed. I've given-in to convenience (and sanity) and decided to hire a caterer. Relief! But there still remain cookie platters to bake and assemble, and I'm on the program to read something -- but what? Possibly some Roethke, or Richard Hugo. I'm open to suggestions.