Yesterday morning, as I was sweeping fresh snow off my car and the walkways, one of my neighbors called out the door: "Would you like some hot chocolate-chip cookies?"

Has a snow shoveler ever heard a nicer question? I think not.

No cookie snow shoveling this morning, but it is 9 degrees out there, so maybe hot chocolate would be in order? I'm hoping to go for a walk later today with another neighbor, though I doubt we'll see the otters down at the cemetery ponds. There's not much open water these days, and I expect they've vamoosed to a stream.

It will be a cold week, with a big snowstorm forecast for Saturday. But the little house is warm, and we still have plenty of firewood in the basement. The luxury of basement firewood is considerable. In Harmony the logs trekked from woodshed to porch woodbox, from porch woodbox to stove woodbox, from stove woodbox to stove. Armload after armload, every day, in all weathers, three seasons a year. Basement firewood is dry, requires no coats or boots, and can be dealt with at any time of the day. Not to mention that mine is unnecessary for survival.

Today I've got a bunch of teaching-related stuff to do: emails and a Zoom meeting, prep for Sunday's seminar and Tuesday's mentor session. There are a couple of big manuscript projects looming, one a poet's full-length collection, the other a copyediting contract with a press, but for the moment I'm in more of a gather-up-the-loose-ends phase. I'm hoping to work on another poem draft today, and possibly do some submitting--not my favorite chore, but it must be done.

Here's a poem from the new collection . . . 

Dead Letter

 

I wish the world were too much with you.

I wish your river overflowed my bed.

I wish that time could call your number.

I wish my eyes were in your head.

[from Accidental Hymn (Deerbrook Editions, forthcoming)]