Thus far, on this holiday morning, the sky clings to its indeterminate white. A chill breeze tugs at the leaves. Tom and I had planned to climb Borestone Mountain today, and perhaps we still will. But if the weather doesn't soften, the climb will be a cold one.

I've spent much of the weekend re-preparing my house for the view of potential buyers: i.e., trying to hide or at least streamline the boxes of books that have lumpenly overtaken every room. It's absurd, the number of books I am not giving away to the Goodwill.

But yesterday I also sat quietly in a chair and reread my poetry manuscript. In regards to that sheaf, I have now reached the stage of amazement: I wrote this! It's a normal stage, but a good one--much better than the stage of despair or the stage of cynicism. And it was pleasant to listen to the rain drip from the eaves, and drink hot ginger tea, and think not-terrible thoughts about my work.

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Geoffrey Hill readers: We need a new poem to discuss. Anyone ready to step up?