I'm late writing to you this morning because T forgot to set his alarm. Thus, we had an extra, unexpected, pleasant hour of sleep followed by a silly rush, but finally I've found a moment to sit down.

Yesterday was packed with busyness--editing and housework and snow shoveling, plus that TV interview dropped into the midst. But the interview is behind me now, and the floors are done for another week, and it didn't snow any more last night, so my day, despite the alarm silliness, should assume a more dignified pace.

I hope to get out for a walk, though I have no idea what the state of the sidewalks might be. Temperatures warmed up last night, then dropped again early this morning, so everything could be ice. I hope not, as I'm feeling a little housebound and could use a shot of wind and air and stride. But such is February in Maine.

Now laundry churns in the basement; the furnace grumbles. I dreamed about kissing a guy I have no interest in kissing in waking life, and I'm still kind of annoyed with my brain for being so obnoxious. But of course my brain could care less.

I need to run away from this letter now . . . wash the breakfast dishes, sweep up the kitchen crumbs, hang the laundry--my morning duties, day in, day out.

Yesterday, on video, I was being treated solemnly as a Poet. Today I am cleaning the cat box and scouring the sink.