There's a sheen of frost in the neighborhood this morning--riming windshields and roofs, sugaring leaves and grass. In the kitchen, the radio pours out chaos like syrup--lies, murder, lies, murder--but our rooms and the street outside our windows remain, on the surface, staid, even prim: recycling bins lined up tidily on the curb; place mats lined up tidily on the dining-room table; pillows plumped tidily on the couches.

I am reading Shakespeare, Dante, Eliot, Herbert. I am writing poems and making apple strudel and going for long walks. I am working on teaching plans and editing manuscripts. Meanwhile, poison leaches into the veins of the nation. Meanwhile, the work I do documents, reacts, resists . . . and solves nothing.