Everything is meteorology, is counting degrees and gauging humidity, learning new words for weather related phenomena, I don't know why but this is the healing that picked me, like I'm counting flicks of the light switch, like I'm soothing myself with obession. The March sun is bright outside the window but the river wind is Arctic, it races down from the Catskill Mountains and straight through the old Victorian home. I push the work ahead of me and dive into the safe retreat of my writing, perhaps that was the solution all along: make everything else around you worse and you'll have nowhere left to go but the words. Tomorrow they say it will be warm. Your to-do list grows.
In your mind, only fantasy is sprouting.
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