Saturday morning, 5 a.m., and I am gearing myself for the weekend. Two days of intensity: writing and talking and sharing new work; and at these moments, just before they happen, I always wonder if I am up to the challenge. In truth, I know it will all be fine. Merely, I'm in the wobble-hour, when my brain  encourages me to panic and I have to talk it off the bridge. I expect you have those hours too.

Yesterday I finished a big stack of editing and sent it off to the press. I vacuumed and dusted and washed floors and cleaned bathrooms. I started reading John Cheever's novel The Wapshot Chronicle and I worked on a poem draft and I talked to my friend Donna about our children's-book reading project. I did three loads of laundry. I poached quinces in syrup, prepping them for the tart I'll make at some point this weekend. I made meatballs and watched the torrential rains and winds whip the leaves from the trees.

And now I'll spend my weekend in a chair, in front of a screen, talking with a dozen people about the Odyssey. The housework-wordwork continuum. What a peculiar life to lead.