Well, OK, it wasn’t as cold as all that, but I did get nice and rained on coming home.  I was quite damp by the time I got inside.  Everything went in the washing machine, after I took a shower.  I wasn’t feeling too terribly chilled, but hypothermia is nothing to screw around with, and it likes to sneak up on you.

This kind of weather keeps up, I’ll be breaking out the sweaters soon.

Any Day Now

Still too cold for biking.  I am sad.

Rain, Rain

If this weather had held off till tomorrow, we could write it off to “in like a lion”; as it is, we’re gonna have to just call it a heck of a storm.  I dropped the car off to be inspected this morning, which meant that I got to wait for the bus in the horizontal rain, near the 62nd Street Bridge where there’s no shelter.

I did have an umbrella, which means that I’m only soaked downwards of a line running from just above my right hip to about the left knee.  My tights are filthy and covered in random bits of detritus, and my skirt, which is denim, is making my legs very, very chilly.

On the other hand, it’s in the 50s out there.  It won’t last, I know, but I’m taking my good news where I can get it.

In The Air

I walked out the door this morning and realized it’s spring.

It was in the 40s, the birds were making I can make my chest big and red noises, and the air smelled like things might conceivably manage to grow again someday.

I think Phil was right this year.

Let It Snow, Let It Snow…Ah, Heck With It

I know it’s not official for another few weeks, but it sure looks like winter out there to me.  There’s actually snow on the ground in a few places, and it’s been sincerely cold the last couple days–not “exposed skin freezes immediately” cold, but cold enough to require hats and gloves.

Sadly, I am not feeling the winter love this year, for no readily apparent reason.  Maybe I’ll perk up when more people get their holiday lights out.


I have always considered myself an indifferent poet at best, but lately things have been occurring to me that really work best in poem form.  I think I may end up sharing some of them with you, my Constant Readers, if only so they’ll get out of my head and make room for other things.

It’s the time of year.  The light and the crows and stuff.  It makes me want to write poems.

Poor Planning

I poked my nose outside at lunch and quickly retreated back into the building; it is chilly out there and I really wish I’d worn a jacket or sweater.  If I’m going out this evening I’m going to have to put socks on, too.

I think we’re going to be having a long winter.


Would I love black raspberries so much if I could get them all year round? Sure, I could buy them at the store, but somehow opening a little plastic box of overpriced fruit just isn’t the same as standing on the cool edge of the woods (raspberries like partial shade) and picking them myself.

You get the ones that are so ripe they fall off the stem, and the ones that are still a little pink around the edges–those are tart–and there’s the purple-and-pink spots that develop on your hands and clothing, and the little scratches that sting when the sweat runs into them. And if you know where to look, you can get about a gallon a day.

And there’s the lightning bugs, flashing their insect comeons in the dusk, an earthbound constellation, and some years there are cicadas, and someday I’m going to work out how one’s supposed to count seconds and cricket chirps at the same time.

The world is soft in summer, that’s all I’m saying.