I'm still sick, but I am managing to stay upright, mostly, and even remain relatively useful, in a dumb sort of way . . . though I'm not sure that Tom would be wise to trust my color suggestions for his paint-the-kitchen project.

It's cold here this morning, below zero again after an interval of slush. Nonetheless, the angle of sunlight has shifted and chickadees are singing their spring songs. Yesterday I bought a bunch of daffodils at the grocery store, and the living room is bright with fresh blue paint and a glossy new floor. Without the dreadful carpeting, the acoustics of this house have improved dramatically. I've discovered that the songs of Sam Cook and Patsy Cline are particularly pleasant to sing in that room.

By the way, I have taken note of your preferences about the Tu Fu reading project. It sounds as if several of you would like to continue, so we will. Let's move on to a new set of poems, XXII through XXVIII, and in a few days I'll ask for your thoughts.

Despite my head cold I'm feeling peaceful this morning, even patient, even affectionate and comical. "There is a time after what comes after / being young, a time after that, he thinks / happily as he walks through the winter woods." That's Jack Gilbert talking, in a brief poem that also mentions a woodpecker, two continents, the Han dynasty, a thousand years, and concrete.

Last week I wrote a two-line poem . . . a poem so frail that I could never consider sending it out into the world on its own. So I will tuck it in here, quietly, to keep company with these paragraphs.

Before Music
How clean the mind! Scrubbed
like a turnip at the fair—

[from a collection in progress, currently titled Song Book]