A murky morning, luridly lit. The sunrise was lavender smoke, and now the first light is Day-Glo mustard backed with pink.

Tom is is still hobbling, but his foot isn't infected, so that's a good thing. I'm sorry he got hurt, but I'm not sorry for the enforced rest. If ever there was a man who deserved two days on the couch, it's him.

Today I'll be supervising the exit of the old woodstove (it's off to cozy retirement as a camp stove in the country) and slapping a second coat of Sunny Veranda onto the dining room walls. And then, at some point, I'll get back to editing a book about St. Paul, Minnesota in 1910; do various chores to save Tom a step (literally); set up a time to get my violin bow rehaired; think longingly of writing poems; wonder about when I'll get a chance to finish planting tulips and garlic; and so on.

Yesterday, as I stood next to my kale patch, a neighbor stopped by to admire how quickly the garden has transformed from weeds to produce. I felt proud, standing there surrounded by those elephantine leaves. Really, it has been amazing. And it is a comfort to remember that it counts as progress. Though we still have no kitchen, at least we have a beautiful Swiss chard crop.