So much snow shoveling, and then so much poetry. That basically sums up my Sunday. Apparently we got about a foot of snow, though I have no idea how anyone could measure that accurately as the drifts were 30 inches in front of my shed door and bare ground in patches across the road. Anyway, Tom and I carved our way out, and then I spent the afternoon in the advanced chapbook class, reading large chunks from collections by Maurice Manning and Vievee Francis and then writing and talking and thinking about how those excerpts might influence participant work.

Today I've got various things to do . . . prep for tomorrow's mentor session with my high school poet, and cogitate over a summer teaching offer, and set up a manuscript-consultation schedule, and clear my desk for the new editing project that's due to arrive at any moment. I ought to vacuum up the furniture-making wood chips that Tom tracked all over the house. This evening I'll hang out with my zoom poetry group and talk about poem revisions. I'm behind on my Aeneid reading, so I need to stake out some reading time. Probably a son will call to discuss football . . .

Tomorrow is February, and after February comes March, and in March my outdoor season begins again. I love my garden and love devoting time to it, but already I'm feeling breathless about the workload. I can do it, and I will do it, but gracious. Sometimes I wonder at myself. So I'm going to make a point of enjoying February, last hurrah of winter rest. If you can call what I'm doing now rest.