Thus far, we have no weather at all, other than an odd swirling wind. Nonetheless, every school in southern Maine is canceled, so something is on the way; maybe just anxiety but probably not. In short, I am not driving to Monson today. Either I'll go up for class first thing tomorrow morning, or I'll zoom again . . . and given that this storm seems to be running late, I suspect the latter.

Today I'll be hanging out at home, waiting for more snow, more wind, more rain, more garbagy mixed precip, maybe even some thrilling tree damage and power outages. This has been quite a March in the little city by the sea. Up north they get flurries. Down here we get wet gales and feet of sodden paste.

I'll be editing at my desk, as long as the power holds out. If it doesn't, I'll be reading and writing by the wood stove and attempting to warm up tea water and leftovers on its tiny lid.

Thank goodness for dry firewood, for a pencil and a notebook, for fat poems and a couch blanket. All praise to teacups and candles and flashlights with working batteries. Sing to the roof and the walls, to the trees that don't fall, to the seabirds huddled in the cove and the cat coiled in his chair, to four-wheel-drive vehicles and a good shovel. Let us celebrate boots and thick socks, knit hats and dry gloves, and the kindly neighbor who snowblows your sidewalk while you're curled in a chair, biting a pen and thinking about punctuation. Remember the seeds, under their opalescent sky, under their thawing soil. They won't forget the sun. You won't either.