We got a solid frost last night; and when I woke this morning, I felt winter's breath creeping under doors and through the windowpanes. Already I've scraped out the ashes, lit a new blaze, let the cat out, ground coffee, stacked the clean dishes, let the cat in . . . the routines of 5 a.m., hour of no-light, hour of iron and spark.

I spent all of yesterday morning hammering out plans for my upcoming revision class, and my thoughts still reverberate with the clang of that internal conversation, the I wish and I wonder. My thoughts pace the walls: how will these imagined poems escape the imagined prisons they have made for themselves?

Today I'll be back at my desk, back at the task--trying to wrestle open a few skylights so I can boost someone else up to that square of sky. It's all such hard work . . . writing, teaching writing, talking about writing.

I'm fortunate to have a few days to do the work, days when I'm alone for hours at a stretch, when I can make this task my primary aim. Around the edges I'll get onto my mat, I'll rake leaves, I'll fold laundry. Sometimes dogged is the best I can do.