While I was out writing last night, Tom strung the lights on our tiny lemon cypress. Today I'll dig out a few miniature ornaments to add to the display, but essentially this is our Christmas decorating for the year. . . . the first year since the boys' birth that neither will be home for the holidays (though we'll meet them in Massachusetts at Tom's parents' house). I have not seen Paul since July, an amazing gap, given his omnipresence during the lockdown. But at least we do talk and text constantly. I'm grateful for chatter, even at a distance.

Salon night was again productive--one, possibly two, rough scrawls with potential--and next Thursday we're changing it up, having a poets' night out at Zero Station Gallery, where two of us (Betsy and me) are reading with our friend Gibson. If you're in the area, you could come too--

WANT / NEED: Poetry of Desire, Grieving, and Giving

an evening with three Portland poets: Dawn Potter, Gibson Fay-LeBlanc, and Betsy Sholl

Thursday, December 9, 2021, 6:00 PM

Zero Station, 222 Anderson Street, Portland, ME 04101

Today I'll be working on Frost Place stuff, and probably shopping, and cleaning bathrooms, and futzing around with my new drafts. For dinner: borscht, homemade sourdough bread, apple and kale salad. I did manage to buy a few local gift things yesterday, which was a relief. New editing projects are looming, so I need to snatch what moments I can . . . though it always seems a shame to waste them on shopping when I could be reading books. But I try to obey the trumpet of duty.

And, anyway, a little bit of enforced shopping can't keep me down. I am writing new poems like my hair is on fire.