Thanks to the exigencies of house pets, I am out of bed too early on a Saturday morning. So I am sitting here at the kitchen table, with my white cup and saucer, and my stoneware jar of yellow marigolds, and my A. S. Byatt novel with the beautiful deep-blue jacket cover, trying to pretend that I'd rather be here than there. And I am glancing over at the seven glowing jars of tomatoes on the counter, and the dish of unripe green pears next to the pale plate of golden drying chanterelles; and as I am sure you have noticed, I am attempting to convince myself that colors are worth the loss of a warm featherbed.

And while I'm thinking about worth, I want to tell you about the poem I accidentally came across the other day, a poem by my dear friend Meg Kearney, a poem that rocked me back on my heels. It's in the new issue of the Bellevue Literary Review, and it's titled "Oriole Report," and I wish I could publish it here for you, but of course I can't because of copyright reasons. So find it, or write to me privately and I will share it with you.

Words have overwhelmed me, again.