I have many things to say, but no time to write them up. It has been cold-cold-cold here, and it is so thrilling. The temps hover around zero, getting down to the negative teens at night. Everything is white. It is lovely.
My brother is on his way here as I type, to stay with us for the week. I'm looking forward to relaxed conversations, a dance party or two, and perhaps some new poetry. For Christmas last year, he wrote up a compilation of poems for each person in our family as well as the extended family on my mom's side. It was one of the best Christmas presents I've ever gotten. Memory and mood in written verse: what could be better?
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