I woke to rain and wind, fell asleep, woke again, and finally arose at the supposed time of 7 a.m., which everyone knows is a lie, especially the cat, and came downstairs and immediately lit a fire in the wood stove because clearly this is the kind of day that requires coziness . . . Sunday, a time change, puddle-lakes spreading up the front walkway, little streams trickling into the basement, the semi-frozen ground unready for the onslaught, and bursts of breeze spattering the windows, plus the comfortable knowledge that I already did the grocery shopping yesterday, that I cleared a few garden beds yesterday, that tomorrow I am heading north for a hard couple of days in classrooms and some lonely overnights in a strange bed, that today ought to be just what it is: pajamas and a friendly wood fire and a couch blanket and hot coffee and books, as the storm rages and T sighs in his half-sleep.

Last night's dinner was a good one: haddock fillets soaked in buttermilk, then rolled in a mixture of cornmeal and rice flour and sautéed till crisp; roasted baby potatoes and red onions; roasted tomatoes with balsamic vinegar; freshly made guacamole with seared shishito peppers, onion, lime, and cilantro; homemade mango sorbet. How I love to make a meal, and how I love this kitchen that T designed for me: compact but efficient, a room made for work. My two primary work rooms--kitchen and study: both small, both exactly what they should be: bright and clean and laid out for my particular use. And also, now, this morning's wood fire crackling in the stove. Hot coffee in a white cup, and this warmth and ease. And the rain: to paraphrase Updike, it lays a roof over the world.

* * *

Island Weather

 

Dawn Potter

Outside, in the sodden dark, the maples

rustle in a switchback wind.

 

I lie alone, restless and ungrateful,

too aware of my skin,

 

hot and cold, hot and cold, legs tangled

in the humid sheets. Into the room,

 

austere as plainsong, drifts an angle

of street-shadow, quivering blue on blue.

 

All night, the storm rattles on vents and panes,

on slow cars sluicing up the narrow hill,

 

their headlights painting streaks of rain

on my pale window, and still 

 

the torrent comes faster, faster—bluster, leak,

and squall. Frame shakes, glass moans.

 

How dim my blood-beat feels, how meek.

Once, I lined the sill with stones 

 

stolen from the sea.

Washed up. Washed down. Debris.

[from Calendar (Deerbrook Editions, forthcoming)]