We got home midafternoon, driving into the sudden dense fog that was hanging over the little northern city by the sea as if we were crossing the line into Brigadoon. We unpacked bags, piled up laundry, then lit a wood fire and ensconced ourselves in front of it . . . books, cat, a cribbage board . . . eventually I did get up and make a frittata for dinner, but a foggy slide into a foggy evening was the theme du jour.

This morning, we're leaping back into the usual schedule: 5 a.m. alarm, T bustling off to work. I've got housework and groceries to deal with, emails to catch up on, my exercise schedule to reignite, desk things to organize. This week between the holidays is always an odd time--not vacation, given that T needs to go to work, but not exactly the daily grind either.

I've got Donne homework to catch up on, class planning to work on, poem drafts to mess with. Maybe some of that will get done this week. For the moment, my mind is overflowing with thoughts of dirty laundry and a bare refrigerator, but I can imagine other worlds.

I learned yesterday that my essay on poems by Baron Wormser and Teresa Carson was one of Vox Populi's most-read pieces of 2023, so that was cheerful news. Maybe I should write more essays than I do.