ALL POETS ARE THIEVES!!!

The winter storm expected in the tri-state area is brewing like a rot-gut beer. Outside my window is snow spittle and a convent's back window. I cannot see the nuns (none) but I'm sure they can intuit the tensions of my lapsed Catholic spirit. My dear New England comrade, Ms. Emily Dickinson, wrote about certain winter afternoons with the heft of cathedral tunes-- you know it-- and the general tendency of the self at this moment is to record the collision of weather and one's being, the weather as metaphor for our haphazard, running-on-empty polis, and the frustrations brought about by too little sunlight and too many dark clouds. After winter afternoons we get the winter's night-- such a fright-- and the dark knowledge that we have the rhyme of the none-too-ancient marinade of malaise. But spring and all, as Dr. Williams's proved to us, is dangling the promise of new worlds, winds, words, and wants. Let's see what the forecast casts forthrightly... J/C

p.s. The outlook looks good, upside down.