It was a good weekend for getting home stuff done. Yesterday I sowed arugula and spinach for the fall, lugged about a third of the firewood from the shed into the basement and stacked it there, caught up with groceries, and then T and I walked over to the University of New England's art gallery to look at a puzzling show of avant-garde musical notation--compelling in its way, but difficult to imagine into sound, though I am considering the potential of using one of the examples as a structural writing prompt. Still, the show was interesting if confounding, and we had a good walk together.

Today: housework, and then I'll start a new editing project, which I expect will consume much of my desk time this week. I need to finish dealing with firewood; I should turn my compost pile before the leaves start to fall. I'm expecting a delivery of twenty pounds of canning tomatoes later in the week, so Friday is already scheduled as sauce and freezer day. However, I also yanked my back yesterday afternoon (while sitting in a chair shucking corn: so stupid), and while it's feeling better this morning, I ought to remember not to be an idiot, and that is often hard for me.

Thanks, everyone, for the kind words about the crown of sonnets. I still can't quite believe I wrote it, but poems can be like that sometimes. A subject demands its form.