Yesterday was eventful: my older son, after much pain and trial, finally got his driver's license, and we're all so proud and relieved. And my younger son returned home, cheerful and unwashed, after a thrilling and girlfriend-acquiring week at the North Haven island school. So here we are again, our customary quartet, although three of us are still asleep and one of us underwent aggravating dreams about the governor all night.

It is still very cold here--10 degrees at dawn--and yesterday afternoon's dripping icicles have all seized up in awkward paralysis, like crooked stage knives. This is my last free weekend before the onslaught of poetry season. Next Saturday I will be mustering my forces and heading down to Portland for the Maine Festival of the Book, where I'll be doing a book signing with, among other writers, our state's new poet laureate Wesley McNair. Then, in quick succession, I'll be hoicking down to Massachusetts to visit Charlotte Gordon's creative writing class at Endicott College, driving to the seaside to read with Dave Morrison at Rockland Public Library, and trying to think of something to say during a panel discussion at the Plunkett Poetry Festival. If you're anywhere near any of these places during any of those witching hours, come and hold my hand.

Meanwhile, I will drink more of this coffee.