A good evening: writing, and visiting with writers; and then reconvening at home with Tom, who'd also been out, working at the photo co-op around the corner. These Thursday nights are fun--when we head out alone to mess around with our own stuff, then meet up afterward and chatter and are pleased for each other.

I just came in from putting out the trash and recycling, and the weather is strange: warm, and very windy, perfect for blowing bags all over the street. Supposedly we've got snow coming in tomorrow afternoon and evening, but things will need to change drastically, temperature-wise.

Today: groceries and vacuuming and such, but also several new rough scrawls to examine as potential drafts. I've got Frost Place work to do: I'm beginning to sketch out plans for my advanced chapbook class, which will start at the end of January, and I have some prep to finish for Sunday's Nina Simone session. I want to go for a walk, and I want to re-mulch my garlic beds before the snow falls.

Outside, the wind is roaring; I hate to think where the trash bags are ending up. Inside, the clock is ticking, and Tom is sighing his "time-to-heave-myself-out-of-this-magnificent-new-bed" sigh. On the kitchen counter, a bouquet of fresh sage spreads its small arms next to a jar of ripening sourdough. In the living room the trunk we use as a coffee table is spread with books: Lucille Clifton, Louise Rich, Harper Lee, Frazer's The Golden Bough. Shade-loving plants--coleus, philodendron--beam in their dim corners.  Christmas cards crowd the mantle. The little house is snug.