Thirteen degrees this morning in the little northern city by the sea, and the furnace is chugging along like a champ. The house is so comfortable, with its tiny lighted tree, its hot coffee, its heaped woodbox. Yesterday evening, as Tom carpentered at the gallery, I wrapped presents for shipping, talked to a son on the phone, watched Hitchcock's Rear Window, made a plain supper of tuna melts and tomato salad. It's been good to have so much time to myself this week: I've caught up on work; I've caught up on Christmas obligations; I've taken a small step back into my own creative cadence.

Today I'll finish a small editing project, do some housework and maybe some baking, go for a long walk in the cold, mess around with poem drafts, probably venture out to the salon to write. The sturdy complications of body and words . . . a donkey hitched to a cart, trotting down a flat gravel road, long ears alive in the breeze . . .