I went for an early morning walk in the snow yesterday, delighted to feel the flakes hovering in my breath, to watch the light transform . . . and then I arrived home to discover that the furnace had stopped working. Grateful this didn't happen while we were on the island, but still. Anyway, after a flurry of texts with T, I called the burner service. Woman on line: "Do you have backup heat? I can't guarantee when he'll arrive." Me: "Oh, yes, I'll be fine." But as I'm lighting the wood stove (half a minute after hanging up), in strides the furnace guy. Fastest response ever: He appears, he diagnoses a problem with the igniter, he repairs it, he leaves. Seven minutes have passed.

But since I'd already lit the fire, I kept it stoked all day--a treat I usually save for holidays and extreme cold snaps. I worked downstairs beside it, the cat slept beside it; the house was charming and cozy, with snow falling and flames flickering.

We never got much accumulation, and it's gone now--vanished into rain. Still, it was beautiful, reminding me of how much I like winter, how much I even like the shortened days, with the wood fire and the lamps. I'm not a natural depressive. Though I can be episodically glum, I don't suffer from light loss or other seasonal changes. Really, I'm just as happy in a shadowy winter room as I am in a sunlit summer one. They both please me.

Today, I'll finish a chunk of editing, work on a syllabus for next week's high school class, and then after lunch I'll meet with my poetry test-kitchen pals for an hour or so of chatter. I got a couple of good drafts from last night's salon, and what I would really like is a day just for myself so that I can transcribe them. But that's not going to happen. I didn't even have time to make it happen on the island. Right now my own poems are the least important thing. But scrawls are better than nothing.