It's 51 degrees this morning, the coolest it's been for months. Downstairs windows are closed; bathrobe is snugged tight; coffee is hot and comforting. Autumn has stepped onto the stage.

I went out to write last night, and now, in the aftermath of that sociable hard work, I'm feeling both buoyed and strengthened. I don't know that either blurt will be a poem, but surprise and new thought are good-enough accomplishments.

So today, here in my small corner of the world, I'll try to recapture a little of last night's sweetness. Friendship and sympathy, embraced via words: To quote myself, "The driving force behind poems is a longing to communicate with our own kind."

It will be a quiet day . . . Undertaking my exercise regimen. Washing sheets and towels and floors. Freezing kale. Talking with Teresa about Donne. Fidgeting through job paperwork. Mooning over poem drafts.

What can I do to stay eager and loving? Whatever it is, I must do it all the time.