A quiet morning, dim and foggy. The heavy-headed tomato plants sag into the mulch. No birds sing. Tires hiss on the road, and slow rain drips from the eaves. Everyone else is still asleep, except for the kitten, who is stalking a helpless wind-up rat.

I will be writing about John Donne again, and baking bread. I feel as if I have become an extraordinarily dull correspondent, and I apologize. Life is repetitive. I don't do much that is new, though I did recently read someone else's essay about avant-garde poetry, and I didn't understand either the hinting tone of the article or the poetry itself. Maybe I'm stupider than a real intellectual, but I equate posturing with chicanery. Perhaps I'm wrong.

All I know is that I cannot bear artists who scoff at emotional attachment, who base their creations on cynicism and ridicule.