It is 6:30 a.m. and already I have managed to fall up a flight of stairs while carrying a cup of hot coffee, which splashed all over me, all over the stairs, and somehow had nothing to do with the cat. I'm sure he's disappointed not to have been the flashpoint of chaos.

Anyway, that's over, and I am now dry and re-coffeed and hoping the incident was an isolated uproar, not act 1 of Dawn's Long Stupid Day.

Yesterday's predicted rainstorm turned out to be a rain-and-wind-and-snow storm, and this morning we have a couple of inches of Crisco-like glop pasted over the cars and driveways. T came home mid-morning because the power had gone out where he was working, and I've been reading about car crashes and power outages all over the state. But our day was tame enough. We walked (slipped, slid) down to the meat market to pick out something for dinner; Tom futzed and fumed over his non-working photo printer; I edited articles for an academic journal and wrapped Christmas presents. And then, after dark, I cooked baked potatoes and steak, made guacamole and carrot salad, mixed together a batch of eggnog for dessert . . . you'd never have known I was the sort of incompetent person who would, a few hours into the future, fall up stairs into a cup of hot coffee.

Today I need to do another batch of Christmas bread baking. I need to go to the grocery store and start the dusting I didn't attempt yesterday. Nor did I look at those poem-blurts in my notebook; my plans got rattled by T's sudden appearance and then by the endless honks and groans of the crippled photo printer. Not that I've got anything against his coming home early. Far from it. But teeny Alcott House is a soundbox, and the air wildly shifts as soon as another person steps through the door.

This morning, for a few more moments, I'm letting myself pretend that I won't have to shovel snow. Here I am, safely and steadily pouring myself a second cup of coffee and wondering what book to read next, just like a regular well-balanced poet. What could go wrong?