Despite the stupid cold, I had a really nice birthday. In the morning T and I walked over to Norimoto, a fantastic Japanese-influenced bakery in our neighborhood, and acquired various tidbits, which we took home for breakfast. Then, after lunch, we went to a matinee showing of the Talking Heads's rereleased concert film, Stop Making Sense, which we'd first seen together at the Bryn Mawr Cinema in 1985. And then, back home, T made hash for dinner, and we watched an old Connery-era James Bond before bed. It was an excellent slow party for a celebrant with a head full of socks.

This morning I feel better, thanks to yesterday's coddling plus a decent night's sleep. For the moment it's still raining outside, but the day is supposed to brighten. I need to grocery-shop and finish the housework I was too sick to manage on Friday, and maybe I'll go for a forage walk . . . not that I need any more wild mushrooms in the freezer, but I can't resist the joy of the hunt. I wish you were here so I could present you with a bag.

I'm still reading Peter Taylor's short stories; I'm still procrastinating on sending out poems to journals; I'm still frowning over terrible news stories; I'm still blowing my raw nose and blinking my raw eyes. And rain is pattering onto the roof, and so far there's no sign of daybreak, and the clock ticks, and kitchen lamplight casts a glow onto a bouquet of late roses, red as polish.

what would the world be

were it not filled with

the incessant bustling of the poet

among the birds and stones

from "A Tale," by Zbigniew Herbert