It's cold this morning! . . . 46 degrees: no wonder Chuck slept curled underneath my chin and I spent the entire night trying to warm my bare feet on Tom. The sad days of sock time are upon us.

Well, I have just bought myself a new pair of boots, so perhaps the sock transition will be more enjoyable this year. I do always feel sad when sandal season is over. On the other hand, lighting the wood stove is a celebration, and if this weather keeps up, I'll be hauling firewood upstairs before you know it.

Yesterday morning, as soon as Tom backed out of the driveway and left for work, the washing machine hose separated from the drain and began spewing water all over the basement. Fortunately I quickly repaired the breach, but I was not sorry to then get a call from the oil company telling me that the furnace cleaning guy was out sick and would have to reschedule. I did not want to picture him kneeling in the flood.

So I ended up with a quieter-than-expected day--did the grocery shopping, finished Cat's Eye, then began copying out "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" so that I can carefully study the transitions between sections. If you're taking my upcoming Poetry Kitchen class, you might consider doing the same: I won't assign that task to you, but in my experience copying out long poems is hugely helpful when I'm trying to figure out how they work and what I might borrow from them. It's also a great way to sideswipe writer's block.

This morning I'm going for a walk with Gretchen, then hauling Chuck off to the vet, getting my hair cut, phone-meeting with Teresa about her current writing obsession . . . a tap-dancing-up-the-walls-and-across-the-ceiling kind of day: I don't know exactly what I mean by that comparison, but certainly it evokes split-second timing and splintery, sparking concentration . . . also, so much talking: the overexcitement of poems mixed in with hairdresser small talk and cat digestion. I might need a nap afterwards.