Yesterday I caught sight of the first hyacinth spikes poking up in the warmth of our house foundation. The neighbor's snowdrops were eagerly blossoming; the cemetery walkways were a delta of puddles and lakes. But this morning we're back to cold, and the snowpiles are shiny with frozen snowmelt, and gritty and gray with time. March in Maine is not a beautiful month, at the ground level.

I've been dealing with a sciatica flareup and I gave into it yesterday--not doing nothing (I walked and stretched and kept up with my usual activities) but conscientiously managing it, carefully working around it, which is its own version of a chore. I hope all of my fuss will pay off with a better day today, but we'll see. Nerve pain follows its own mysterious schedule. I can go for months without a twinge, and then bam: the knife.

Yesterday I listened to a little spring training baseball. I marinated chicken in buttermilk, then oven-fried it alongside roasting Brussels sprouts. I read Charlotte Bronte's Villette, and went for a walk with Tom, and helped my kid edit his professional bio, and wrote emails to some writer friends, and fiddled around with poem drafts, and played cards, and took an afternoon nap. In other words, I didn't do much, and let's hope my right hip is grateful.

Vox Populi published one of my new poems today. It's titled "To the Republic." I'm sure the editor's timing was no mistake.