It's snowing again, but lightly, lightly. The slow flakes are huge, like scraps of torn letters or the short white feathers on a hen's breast.

Tonight I will be playing Irish songs at Pat's in Dover-Foxcroft. I wish you were coming. Then, between sets, we could sit on stools and sip our beers and glance up at the TV hockey game and remark that Bruins goalie Tuukka Rask has a delightfully spelled name and shake our heads sadly over this so-called spring. So I will imagine you are there anyway, even if you aren't. It will give me something to do, if, once again, I find myself dog-paddling in a crowd of strangers. I think this is why people take up cigarettes. When in doubt, go smoke outside in the cold.

Changing the subject: I know I've already shared the link to my interview with Nin Andrews, but I think this is the first interview I've ever done that didn't make me queasy with embarrassment afterward. Nin must be very, very good at her job to manage that. So far I've gotten a number of emails from people responding to specific things I've said, particularly about the music-writing link. One person even asked if I'd ever been diagnosed with synesthesia. Poetry writing as diagnosable disorder. Sure. Why not?

Nin Andrews interviews Dawn Potter