Somehow, I seem to have yanked something in my left ankle--a tendon, I guess. It was bothering me mildly all day yesterday, and this morning it is bothering me slightly less mildly, and I am annoyed. I do not like staying off my feet, and I doubt I will today. But maybe I'll at least try editing at my sit-down desk instead of my standing one.

Friday. Laundry, groceries, recycling, bottle returns. Cleaning the downstairs rooms. Editing an article and finishing a class plan. It's cold outside--23 degrees and windy: no working in the gardens. We've got another snowstorm on the way. I doubt the southern coast will see more than a couple of inches mixed with rain, but inland will get socked. If I were still living in Harmony, I would be blue. March is the cruelest month.

It was good to get out to write last night, to spend time with my poets. I don't think my drafts were worth much, but at least they exist. And I got a good haircut yesterday afternoon, quite short, so despite my wonky ankle I am feeling prettier than usual. It may be an illusion--at age 59 I should admit that it's certainly an illusion--but why not enjoy it anyway?

Friday. The end of a week at home, a week filled with busyness, stacks of desk work, house chores, my jaunt to Lewiston; poems everywhere, like dust motes or fleas. I'm rereading Wolf Hall, entranced again by Hilary Mantel's imaginative immersion into setting and voice. I'm washing dishes and pinning socks to the basement lines and folding towels and scrubbing out the shower and playing Elvis Costello's "Every Day I Write the Book" on repeat. Singing along. Thinking, How true it is.