Yesterday snow turned to sleet turned to rain, and then hard rain all night long. Nonetheless, the Deering carpoolers ventured onto the peninsula to the poetry salon . . . so strange, still, to hear myself say this: yes, I live in a neighborhood where there are enough likeminded poets to carpool across the city once a week to write together. In Harmony I didn't live within 30 miles of even one like-minded poet. It might have been within 50 miles.

The rain is still clattering against the window, and I am girding myself to go out into it, lugging the recycling and the trash. Friday, and here I thought I'd be editing all day, but the files haven't arrived so, instead, I have a rainy day to transcribe last night's salon scribbles and discover if any might be poems. I'll copy out some of the Inferno. I might start planning another little handmade book. I'll read William Trevor stories, and dip into Watchmen, and wash sheets and fold towels, and think of something to make for dinner.

Tom was supposed to be up north tonight, for the opening of a gallery show, but it's been postponed because of weather. Yesterday, during the day, he texted me that update, in the form of a joke: "Tell your boyfriend the show got postponed so I'll be home." Immediately a Siri popup on my phone inquired: "Would you like to add 'tell your boyfriend' to Calendar?"

Who knew that Siri could be so helpful when organizing an adulterous schedule? Ah, the comedies of technology.