I'm awake too early this morning, but at least it's Monday's sleep I'm wasting, not the weekend's. Outside, the temperature has dropped back to single-digits: 8 degrees, according to my phone. I have a million things to do this week--editing, class planning, presentation planning, residency prep, zoom meetings, household chores, plus a mammogram--but at least I won't be on the road. And I'm starting things off with a queasy stomach, but that's likely just nerves and last night's overly rich dinner. (Tom made a very elaborate Shanghai pork belly dish that was tasty but extreme.)

Now dark presses against the window panes. I hear an Amtrak train hum through the crossing at the end of the street. On the back of the couch the Big Kitten chirps and purrs. Coffee steams in a white cup.

I'm still feeling a little fragile, poem-wise. Making the new collection has sapped me in some way. I don't know what or how to think of it.