This morning New England is bracing for a foray into the Arctic. At the moment the temperature in the little northern city by the sea is 19 degrees and windy. But this will quickly change: 7 degrees by 8 a.m., 3 degrees by noon, -4 by 4 p.m. Overnight we're supposed to reach toward -20, a picnic compared to the homeland, which will be angling toward -30.

This will be, by far, the coldest temperatures I've seen it in Portland, though in Harmony I once saw -40. As you know, I love weather, so I'm excited, though not sorry I won't have to carry firewood to the house or thaw out livestock water buckets five times a day. Instead, I'll get the wood stove going this morning, get a roast into the oven in the afternoon, and hope this isn't the kind of house where the pipes freeze.

I got the housework and groceries done yesterday; today I'll be washing sheets and editing, plus prepping for tomorrow's class, which keeps changing personnel but remains overfull: I had two new registrants yesterday. I have some hope of getting up early tomorrow and taking a drive to the ocean so that I can look at sea smoke in subzero temperatures, but I don't think I'll have time. Also, will my car start? In her youth Tina the Subaru could start in any old temperature, but she's out of practice.

I've got a couple of new poems up in the Hole in the Head Review, both of which arose from draft blurts written in my Thursday-night salon. As you can see, I've been wandering into strange new directions. It's been exciting to watch myself morph. I guess, to a degree, artists are narcissists, overly fascinated by themselves. But it is interesting to study one's own brain at work.