Saturday morning, early December. Notably warmer than it's been: 30 degrees at 6 a.m. and temperatures forecast to climb. Yesterday was a rush-around of doctor's appointment, editing, housework, zoom meeting, the photo show, dinner out in a trendy Old Port restaurant. I felt like a regular city girl, striding through the Friday night crowds--past the baritone-horn player mournfully hooting Christmas carols outside the movie theater; past the lit-up trees in parks and courtyards; over cobblestones and bricks; past crowded restaurants, humming bars, the glint of harbor.

I enjoy these little jaunts with my neighbor. It's fun to have such a local friendship: to share a walking habit and an interest in gardening, to make little forays to restaurants or plant nurseries, to discuss neighborhood cats and speculate about neighborhood gossip. It's a friendship that's arisen entirely from sharing a fence line; we would never have crossed paths otherwise. And it adds an everyday sociability to my life that I haven't had since my children were toddlers.

This weekend I'll need to finish the housework I didn't get to yesterday. I want to work on poem drafts, catch up on desk things, start rereading Oliver Twist. I haven't cooked a proper dinner since Monday evening, what with T's auction duties and my writing group, and I'm looking forward to a slow evening together.

I haven't really let you into the story behind all of my zoom meetings this week. Details to come in that regard, but I will say that they involve creating a new zoom teaching platform now that the Frost Place Studio Sessions are defunct. So: stay tuned for The Poetry Kitchen, an online collective that will host classes and gatherings. I love all of the messy camaraderie that kitchen implies, and I'm eager to get 2024 offerings up and running.