I've been enduring a migraine for a couple of days--not a debilitating one, just the lingering axe-in-the-head variety, the kind that ibuprofen dulls but doesn't erase.

This morning the headache axe is still solidly biting into my skull, a fitting backdrop for the nausea of the State of the Union address, the sloppy mess of Iowa, and (in minor news) the wince that the Red Sox have traded Mookie Betts to the Dodgers.

But at least I'm home today, not dancing in front of a room full of tenth graders, and maybe with a little quiet the axe will dissolve.

I've got the eternal editing stack on my desk and some Frost Place stuff to attend to; and I should force myself to apply for some grants; I should lug in firewood and clean bathrooms and wash sheets; I should sit down with my newish long poem "Rules for the Direction of the Maid" and consider revisions; I ought to write up some thoughts about Chestnut Ridge for a Florida book group that's reading it; I need to I need to I need to . . .

I could use the laying-on-of-hands right about now.