It's snowing hard in Portland. Southern Maine schools are all closed, but up north there are no cancelations yet. The plan is that I'm going to zoom with the Monson kids today, as long as the schools are willing to drive them to class. We'll see. Driving in terrible weather is a sign of moral superiority in central Maine, so likely they'll show up.

If they do appear, we'll be looking at poems by Siegfried Sassoon, Joy Harjo, and Jane Kenyon, focusing on approaches to repetition and refrain, or the lack thereof. If they don't appear, I'll be editing chapter 14 of the giant editing project. And the snow will fall and fall.

Yesterday, in between batches of editing, I went for a long walk, trying to air out the mildew in brain and body. The sky was bright, icicles dripping from eaves, a neighbor scratching his head over his beat-up car, a dog trying to wriggle out of his plaid coat. In the cemetery, snow squeaked under my boots; flecks of quartz glinted cheerfully from the granite headstones. A man in a ski hat strode by, speaking prophetically into a phone.

When I wound my way back through the streets, up my own back stairs, the house greeted me warmly. Here I am, it said. Four walls and a roof. Everything you have ever wanted. The house's confidence is alarming and comforting. The house demands my love in return. It is like the cat. I am not sure I am up to the house's expectations.

But at least pale-pink hyacinths are opening in a vase on the kitchen counter. Their scent fills the little rooms, and that ought to make the house happy.