I was going to write about it today, my divorce lawyer has some foolish novel published, work was push and shove and drag, stop and start. A day like one of those puzzles you find on your table in a folksy sort of restaurant, a near guarantee your food will taste of cheap grease, and while you’re waiting for your heart-attack-on-a-plate you annoy yourself with that annoying thing until you smack it down on the table saying, “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” One of those days that makes you realize that the “irk” in irksome is the nerve-rubbing sound of a psychic hinge that needs oil.

And then today had skies so blue, with bits and drifts of clouds. I walked out for lunch with two co-workers, who I suspect take delight in finding out what extreme reaction I’ll have to this or that. I think they said something about the cold, or maybe I brought it up gesturing at the wild sky. They mentioned the predicted snow, and I went off on how wonderful it was, and how much I love winter, and how wonderful January is. First they accused me of lying, and when I denied it, they threatened to sabotage my happy light.

Tonight the bay was copper with strands of sky run through, and I found this poem by John Ashbury, ending;

Fine vapors escape from whatever is doing the living.
The night is cold and delicate and full of angels
Pounding down the living. The factories are all lit up,
The chime goes unheard.
We are together at last, though far apart.

I’m going to re-arrange my bedroom so I can have a little garden of succulents on a dresser in the south-facing window, up against the lace curtain and the cold blaze of snow coming.

Today I’m even almost ready to fall in love again. Maybe.