In the garden the thyme glitters with rime, each tiny leaf outlined in frost. Yesterday I dug up my remaining leeks before the ground freezes hard. But for now the days are still warming. In the afternoons I split wood in shirtsleeves while the sociable dogs sit around and watch, and in the evenings my bare hands aren't too cold to cut brussels sprouts or kale for dinner. Last week's heavy snow flattened the garden lettuce beyond resurrection, but in the greenhouse I've still got a few lettuce and spinach plants, plus a batch of kale to make me feel better when the deer invade my garden and eat the rest of what's out there.

For dinner last night, we had turkey hash, a plain yet sublime food--chopped dark meat mixed with leftover mashed potatoes; a mixture of sauteed leeks, carrots, and sourdough bread cubes; and some of the turkey stock that had been simmering all day--which Tom pan-fried on a buttered griddle. Using the food processor, I ground together cranberries, apples, and an orange, which requires only 3/4 of a cup of sugar to become a fine, fresh, and very quick-to-prepare relish. And for our salad we ate tiny roasted brussels sprouts mixed with frost-sweetened spinach leaves, radish sprouts, and grated kohlrabi.

Today, however, I am back at my desk: copyediting and anthologizing and still thinking about the Stan Musial poem that is beginning to assume an amoeba shape in my mind. I hope the poem will declare itself soon. But of course these things cannot be rushed.