Winter clutches the land. It had been so cold that snow was like sand, squeaking under boots, drifting on roads, light as dust. Then the weather changed. Rain came and howling wind, the rain froze when it hit the roads, highways are closed, littered with spun-out ambulances and snowplows.
The days are still short after the winter solstice. I work on, housebound; winter’s projects keep me busy every day, writing, drawing, making, building the spring’s promise. Irish poets used to lie in a dark house with a tartan over their face and a stone on their belly to compose verse. It was a poetic incubation. Winter is like that— it’s the incubatory darkness. I see few people day after day, but the work flows and jumbles in the dark.