It's frigid out there--ten degrees above zero, with a wind chill of ten below, the wind whipping and tearing and groaning, the stiff and snowy yards carved into dioramas of Antarctica, all peaks and ice. Yesterday my neighbor and I walked out to lunch, an adventure that felt like polar exploration. And yet, when I staggered home, a red-faced Yeti, my living room was bathed in sunshine, the light almost springlike. It's all very confusing to the senses.

Yesterday was catch-up-on-housework day. Today will be get-my-tax-stuff-in-order day. I can't say I'm looking forward to the job, but it is good to have a bit of time and space to get it done . . . and to have a desk to spread it out on instead of an elderly ironing board disguised as a shelf. Afterward I'll let myself turn to poem drafts, or teaching plans, or prepping for some of the spring events that are hurtling forward on the calendar. Betsy Sholl and I have been asked to lead a public conversation about each other's work at the Plunkett Poetry Festival in April, and neither of us has yet begun to think about how we're going to do that. So probably I ought to take a stab at it.

My lunch outing made it clear that any walking in this town is an expedition, which is too bad because I'd like to get outside into the sunlight. But I think I am reduced to exercising on my mat for the foreseeable future. Between the bitter cold and the terrible footing, there's not much to be said for the outdoor life at the moment.

But the little house is pleasant, even if the cat is cranky.