Applications have been open for four days, and already this summer's Frost Place Conference on Poetry & Teaching is half-full. I'm shocked, in a good way. So I guess if you're thinking about applying, you should do so pronto. And if you've already applied but your friends/colleagues are procrastinating, stick a pin in them.

Yesterday I tried to distract myself from Republican treachery by washing floors, folding clothes, reading Dickens, thinking about my manuscript, talking to my sons. Today I'll sit down with a seed catalog and start planning for spring. What else can we do but cling to our little hopes?

And I got a poem accepted yesterday . . . one that's been rejected over and over again for several years. It's a piece that speaks explicitly of aging bodies and aging desire. An unfashionable topic, clearly, and I'd pretty much given up on placing it. But from the ashes, a spark.

So, dear ones, this morning I've decided to throw my shoulders back, take a deep breath, lift my gaze toward clouds and sun. I can't do much. But I can still dig, and plant, and laugh, and shout, and sleep. And listen.