Come with me, dance, my dear

It's snowing.

There's two or three inches on the ground already. Huge white gusts are blowing past my windows. We're supposed to have fifteen inches before this is all over.

I am very happy.

A wood of lunar negatives, ensilvered as the moon had waned

My poem "Postcards from the Province of Hyphens," written in April 2002 for Luis Yglesias, has been nominated for the Rhysling Award. This one, I wouldn't mind seeing win. It's a poem that matters to me.

Wherever we walk, we stand at the crossroads.
Whatever our choices, we tell ourselves home.

There's still snow falling, but I fear we've already been outclassed by New York City and Hartford, never mind Boston, and won't actually wind up a wasteland of arctic drifts and roaming packs of grad students. It's lazy snow, not the thickly flurrying, intense kind of snow that produces conditions akin to the Blizzard of '78, the last time Yale closed for weather. I'm still hoping for a foot and change. But I might be able to venture out to the convenience store and not disappear in the whiteout after all. I'm so disappointed.