On Thursday evening I'm reading at Bates College with my dear friend Meg Kearney. We are full of anticipation because we have not read together since the night we met each other, five or six years ago. Since then Meg has moved to New Hampshire, become director of the Solstice MFA program, won the L. L. Winship Prize, and acquired a three-legged dog. But she is still the fiery, sexy, open-hearted poet she always has been; and if you can possibly manage to come listen to her read, you won't be sorry. As added inducement, the National Weather Service declares that Thursday will be mostly sunny. Imagine not driving in the snow to attend a poetry reading. What luxury!
In the meantime, I am reading Thoreau's 1852 journal. In the meantime, I am baking bread and snowshoeing and driving to piano lessons and stoking the woodstove and imagining Milton and the story goes on and on and on.