A thin snow is sifting down through the dark air, coating steps and sidewalks and windshields. I hear Tom downstairs making toast, flicking on the radio news, opening and closing the refrigerator, tapping his coffee cup against its saucer. "Democrats versus Republicans," mutters the radio. "Regulations, government, argument, administration," and so on and so on.

My study is pooled in lamplight. From the corner of my eye I can see into our bedroom--the bed, a flurry of unmade white; a low pot of begonias silhouetted again the muslin window blind; the polished floor shining. There is hardly any furniture in there. We don't even own a bed frame anymore: it, like our bookshelves, was built into our Harmony loft-bedroom. Now we sleep on the floor, as if we're kids in our first apartment.

Tonight I'll be teaching the second class in my 10-week essay workshop. In the meantime, I'll be rereading essays and, in the interstices, having lunch with a friend from high school, unless he's held up by snow. I hope I'll also be spending some time with Ahkmatova's poems.

The souls of all my loved ones are on high stars.
It's good there's no one left to lose,
And I can cry. The air in this town of the tsars
Was made to repeat songs, no matter whose. 

[from an untitled poem, dated 1944]