Since Christmas, I've been writing poems almost exclusively. But last night, quite suddenly, my brain began turning over ideas for an essay, and this morning I got up and began writing it. I never will understand how the genre shift happens--though possibly, in this case, it's because I've been immersed in Carruth's Letters to Jane, which is such a beautiful book . . . funny, sad, precise, gossipy, cranky-old-mannish. I could quote something from every page. If I'm ever dying of cancer, I hope someone writes me letters like those.

This wretched time change is making me feel like I've got rocks in my head. Already I'm late for everything. According to the clock, I should be stumping through my morning-chore rounds, even though the animals still think it's only 7 a.m. and aren't yelling at me yet. It's the clock that's doing the yelling.

I did plant my onions and leeks yesterday, and cleaned a few spiderwebs out of the greenhouse. It was 40 degrees and humid in there, on a dank day, and the soil was workable. All this seems propitious, despite the stupid time change. Despite the Japanese horror.