It's publication week around here, I guess: because here's another new poem, "Island Weather," just released in Vox Populi. This is one of those pieces that did not begin in rhyme but somehow, after many revisions, turned into a formal poem. I'm always interested when that happens . . . when the form emerges late rather than being part of a draft's initial impetus.

It's cold this morning--not quite frost but we're very close. Baseball season has finally ended. My backyard is glowing gold, and squirrels potter busily among the bright little shrubs. Today I'll edit, and then work on Frost Place stuff, and then in the afternoon walk up into the cemetery. For dinner, autumn fare: leek soup, fennel salad, apple crisp.

I've got my new Deerbrook manuscript on my mind: working on cover permissions, fretting about blurbs. I hate and despise asking people to write blurbs for me. But it must be done.