I slept in till 6:30 this morning, a rare and welcome Sunday-morning loll. And today I have nowhere to go and nothing to do . . . well, actually, I have plenty to do, but none of it requires a schedule or a timesheet, so I will idle here in my couch corner and pretend I'm completely untethered.

Yesterday, while I was upstairs teaching, T was downstairs installing the first batch of finished cupboard doors. As you can see, they have radically changed the look of the kitchen. Instead of a clutter of busy-looking shelves and open closets, we suddenly have sleekness, quiet, elegance. We are both feeling the jolt: who are we, to possess such an uppity-looking room? Of course T is a master carpenter; he routinely builds this sort of beauty for his rich clients. But our own houses tend to stay half-done. We aren't used to gloss.

Outside, low clouds have settled in--rain in the forecast, a wet afternoon and night, a wet tomorrow, a long slow storm. I haven't yet turned on the furnace: the little wood stove is just right for banishing the small chill of a rainy autumn day, and in a minute I'll get up and light a fire, embrace this Sunday at home.

I think yesterday's class went well; I hope it did. Always, teaching is an improv dance. I jump into and out of the plans I've laboriously written up; conversations flash; lines suddenly undress themselves.

How I long to be a poet.