It's Sunday, it's dark, it's snowing hard, and I've kindled a fire in the wood stove just for the pleasure of combining flames and snow and idleness. As expected, my reading in Brunswick was canceled, so the day stretches out before me, reading and housework and snow shoveling . . . but first this couch corner and this small cup of coffee and this golden fire licking into life.

As a sad Buffalo Bills fan, I naturally have little interest in the Super Bowl this year. I could offer a tepid Go, Eagles wave, but I hate commercials and I'm sick of the Chiefs and I don't want to catch any ghoulish glimpses of Trump and I can watch Kendrick's halftime show on YouTube tomorrow. Which is to say, no part of today will be spent fixing football snacks. Last night I made braised lemony chicken legs, with a side of roasted spinach and another of black beans, red peppers, and corn. Now I have enough leftover chicken to furnish the base for a chicken and vegetable soup tonight--a very un-Super Bowl-ish meal, best enjoyed in quiet at a dining-room table.

The Poetry Kitchen class I posted yesterday is now entirely full. It is gratifying to see that people want to sign up for these sessions. I try to keep them affordable and personal, but I'm aware that there are hundreds of other options floating around in the aether. It's not a given that anyone would choose me, and I'm still a little startled when they do.

That said, if you are interested in the class and did not get a chance to register before it filled, let me know ASAP. I would be willing to run a second session on Sunday, April 20, if needed. This class is for anyone, poet or poetry-shy, who wants to try their hand at framing their feelings about the state of the nation. If you are struggling, know that many other people are as well. I want these classes to be a gathering place--a place to support one another, and resist, and celebrate new work rising from the ashes.