A dim Saturday morning. I've been thinking about John Fowles, about Dante, about a sad poet comrade who's afraid he's not a poet.

The furnace rumbles. My white cup shimmers with black coffee. Next door a young blond woman walks up her driveway in bedroom slippers.

Today some of my oldest friends and I will linger along the chilly bayside, will eat split pea soup and gossip, will say goodbye.

Today I will stand alone at my kitchen window and stare into a brief snowscape rick-racked with tiny animal footprints.

Sometimes I don't know what to do with myself. Sometimes I know exactly what to do with myself. How can I tell the difference?

Once, long ago, my kindergarten son invented the title of a book he meant to write. Three Clowns in a Meadow. I hope I get to read it someday.