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Now I need a hot tub AND a sauna. It is pretty cold out.  Cold enough to close the school district, but since I work at a weirdo independent school, I have to be tough like a Siberian and drag my hiney out in the deep freeze in our busted old Jeep with a heater on the fritz to school some teens.  I had one boy show up in shorts to class today. Funny little creatures.

This is brilliant: Hot Tube Delivery

Every time the temperature drops below 0 I think I’d make a good Fin. I can sauna like no other.  And really, I get kind of excited and invigorated by the killer weather.  I’m just back from that same place I have to go tomorrow, and I can tell you that fourteen year-old SUVs do not take kindly to the cold, but I’m not all tired and defeated after my double like I usually am. I’m wide awake and ready to poem.

Except I don’t know what to poem about.  These last three days I feel like I’ve been lacking vision. I’d like to poem about this cold, but is the weather a mundane subject (mundane is a vocab word this week)?  And really what I’ve been thinking about since my friend and I got back from training is the funny and sad twenty-something stories we swapped in the car, and also for some reason, caddisfly nymphs. Inspiration is weird.

Anyhow, caddisfly nymphs (which is probably not the right word, it’s probably a pupa or something, pupate, isn’t that what they do?) secret this sticky stuff from their mouths and it covers their bodies, and as they bounce along the water they pick up sand, twigs, tiny rocks, etc. One time I saw one that had a snail stuck to it.

Anyhow, it’s late, so I have to try to make a poem out of these damn bugs.

Caddisfly in the Rock House

In a belch of private resin, the stories stack here. The warm melt attaches sand, twigs, rocks, and other wearying items of value.

Inside the walls poke and scrape. This is how skin is made, if insects have it.

Before the great starvation there is growth. Days like seasons, like all seasons in a second.

The stone house carries the bewildered wild, the frightened pupa, finally to the hot rock resting place.

Drying light causes the breaking to begin, and there’s pleasure in it, in the splitting. But aching too, and a special kind of sorrow.

Raising wings to the sun to nurse the sky, the nymph regards the shell house with resolve. Leaving it behind will be the hard part.

Just before flight, she stands on the shards of home, guided by purpose, and certain she can mend it.

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At some point this weekend I want to write a big poem. A more flighty, talky kind. But, tonight it was bugs, and well, metaphor. How are you, poemies?  Did you have a happy Wednesday?

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