I'm such a slowpoke this year,
not a tree trimmed,
no boxes littering the rooms.
I'm thinking about Christmas, though.
Surely I'll begin soon.
The real me is the woman in this window, manual typewriter in front of her but holding a pencil posed over paper. Deer nibble at shrubbery on snow-covered lawn, fodder both for her writing and for her life. Or are they the same thing? [Picture by illustrator Adrianne Blair in Faith Baldwin's Face Toward the Spring.]
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