Thinking

So here I sit, waiting for word of what surely, surely! will be a snowday, thinking back over the past three weeks of the semester.

And thinking about the herons I've seen this winter, a relatively mild winter but still one would think that anything with wings that stands around in water all day would go at least a little farther south.

And thinking of those class discussions that took off, and I couldn't write on the board fast enough. Prufrock as Odysseus!

Thinking of the weeks to come, the poems to be read, the essays to grade.

Thinking of the snow everywhere carefully descending (that's e.e. cummings); thinking of the pavement gray (Yeats), thinking of the mermaids singing, each to each (Prufrock).

Thinking of a collage idea I had while trying to fall asleep one night, but I don't think it's possible. The idea had to do with language, a torn language, a language that almost, almost means somethi...

Hmm, that gives me an idea...

*

distrust
each
word
not
what
I
mean
to
heron