The air is very humid this morning, with a vague drizzle starting to patter, which will eventually settle into steady rain. But despite the warmth, the ambience is autumnal--6 a.m. and only the bare bones of daylight framing the sky.

Yesterday I fiddled with a poem draft, read the Iliad, vacuumed and washed floors, planted radishes and lettuce, went on a walk with my neighbor, made chili. It's been a quiet week, without much editing to do. I struggle not to feel guilty about my unstructured days, but in fact I've finished two new poems, submitted several pieces to journals, made headway in my Homer reading. It's work. It's something. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

Today the electrician is supposed to show up midday, and Tom will come home to meet him and discuss the plethora of issues that need to be fixed: old wiring, badly installed new wiring, unfinished renovation wiring . . . Maybe, finally, we can get these problems solved.

Otherwise, I'll have another day to myself: reading and writing as the rain falls.