And the way the sunlight plays upon her hair

This morning at the bank I discovered that an account I had thought closed years ago was not only still open, it contained enough money for me to stop worrying about whether I really could afford this trip to the ICFA or not. I just got back from Wilson Farms, where I walked afterward to pick up pears for (the infamous mouse-attracting) pear cake, and from last week's snow and freezing rain, all of a sudden it's turned spring, clear slanting light, breezes that smell of damp earth, watercolor contrails of cloud across the horizon rather than the white-out blue of winter, frozen to the back of the sky. Someone explain to me why this weather makes me want to translate Catullus.

My poem "The Firework-Makers" has been accepted by Lone Star Stories. It's not Catullus, but it makes me happy.