I woke up to discover we got our first snow last night--just a thin coating but, still, that's worth a celebration. Suddenly the neighborhood roofs are phosphorescent; the driveways are like bright trails; the streetlights put forth a Dickensian glitter, and I expect Bob Cratchit and his goose to trundle up the street at any moment.

Of course, as soon as the sun rises this will all retreat to ordinary, and the slush will take over and the charm will vanish. But at least I got the first glimpse.

So, Monday morning: a good one so far . . . snow and a warming house, hot coffee and tree lights, and the cat making a scene about the white stuff on his feet.

I'll grit through my exercise class this morning, then finish up the housework, put in some time at my desk, and maybe later in the afternoon start working on Christmas cards and package wrapping. While I was teaching yesterday, T was printing his card-of-the-year--a lovely impressionist photograph of downtown Portland in the rainy dark. What with all the bread I baked on Saturday and the shopping mostly done and the boxes shipped and now the cards stacked and ready, I am feeling surprisingly calm and pulled together about this encroaching holiday instead of like my more usual whining madwoman.

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And I've got a new poem out in Vox Populi: "Arcadia, 1939."