I'm feeling a little lonely for my manuscript. All the before work, during lunch, Saturday morning time in which I might write is being taken up by a book review, recommendation letters, and a contest that I'm judging. And then Thursday, I had an idea for a new class I'd like to teach.
On the way to work yesterday morning, instead of thinking about a poem, I was thinking about this blog entry and wondering if I should mention how it started snowing big impossible flakes 20 minutes before I had to leave. For some reason, the snow didn't seem invasive and onerous as it often does.
And now the snow is back this morning (not needing any inspiration). One thing I'd like to do when I squeeze through the impasse of other obligations is to write a poem like "February Report on Conditions in the Interior" by Jeff Gundy. It has a form that is not a form, a series of numbered observations or "conditions." Nice.