Thanks to my fifteen-year-old, I now have a cold and a poetry reading on the same day. Also, it is first light of school-vacation week, and it is snowing. Fortunately I am not on stage till 2, so my coffee and I have time to slump here at the kitchen table and mutter imprecations.

One notable thing about life in Maine is that it is so easy to complain about. If we're not grousing about snow in April, we're facing a plugged kitchen sink and jailbreak chickens with the singleminded mission of jumping up and down on top of my newly planted lettuce. And then insect season arrives, along with impossible Little League schedules and dastardly lawnmowers. Before you know it, we're back to wood splitting and chimney cleaning and ice breaking. The cycle of complaint never ends.

(Actually, I'm only pretending to be in a bad mood, so don't worry. But I really do have to read poems with a head cold. So here's hoping that it at least gives me a sexy smoker's voice as a side-effect.)