I'm also not sure I'll bring myself to listen to "Lullaby" tomorrow. That was the very first poem I ever brought to a workshop. I was beyond scared. Here I was, caretaker of two babies in the woods, thinking I could write poems. The idea that it will be that poem, of all others, that will be featured on a national radio show. . . . Clearly, I probably won't be able to listen.
On top of all this, I received an email from a New York agent. A couple of months ago I sent her "Self-Portrait, with War and Peace," and now she wants to see the rest of the obsessive-rereading manuscript. Being a poet, I don't know anything about agents, but Charlotte, who does, assures me that this is an excellent development. Sheeplike, I bulge my eyes and race optimistically into the next field. (Pardon the sheep metaphor, but I'm reading Thomas Hardy. All sheep, all the time.)
So it will be good for me, in a rigorous and self-cleansing sense, to shovel out the barn, which is wretchedly in need of shoveling--except that the temperature is below zero and it's too cold for both me and the animals. Weather-enforced procrastination, once again. I think I will let Tom take me to the movies instead.
Anyway: updates: I'm hoping to post the next Winter's Tale comment cue tomorrow, so catch up with your reading. (Full disclosure: I haven't even started that scene yet.) On another note, I've got a couple of new poem recordings up on the Poetry Speaks site, if you want to hear me instead of Garrison Keillor.
Dinner tonight: Frittata? Ziti and meatballs? Ham and eggs? We seem to be overrun with leftovers, which is a rare occurrence in this household. Of course, they could all have vanished by dinnertime.