This afternoon I'm off to Waterville, a mere 45 minutes away from my own home, to judge the last of my three 2010 Poetry Out Loud gigs. This time it's the finals, and there will be hoopla and nerves. Also, snacks. In any kind of high school activity, free-range snacks are extremely important. Nobody needs food more than a worked-up eleventh grader. Myself, I find it difficult to perform on stage after having eaten several doughnuts. This is not true for an eleventh grader.

But before I leave for Waterville, I have the whole rest of the day to get through. I'll be copyediting Robert Cording's poetry manuscript; I'll be transcribing Blake's America: A Prophecy; I'll be hammering out a few sentences on one or another of my essays in progress; I'll be collecting eggs and feeding the goat and wrapping a birthday gift for my nephew. I'd like to write a poem. I have the amorphous sensation that poetry may be lurking behind my eyes and beneath my fingers, but who knows when it will decide to leap? As I'm sure I've said before, for me writing a poem is rather like running a high fever: I might feel it coming on for a week. Once it arrives, I'm done for.

P.S. There's a new comment on the March 1 Winter's Tale post.