We are snowed in here in Massachusetts. I even got the benefit of a snow day on Friday, thanks to Simmons for closing for the day (bless you, sweet darling Simmons College). But I’m sorry to report that I’m feeling restless on this Sunday afternoon. It’s beautiful out: the trees – down to the tiniest limb – clothed in white and working lacy patterns against the pearl gray sky. It makes me wax poetic…but does it make me want to sit down and write? Or, more precisely: does it make me sit down and write (there is a great difference between wanting and doing). The comfort of this couch and the crackling of the fire have distracted me from doing so just yet. I could write just a little bit, I should…but first I could eat a pomegranate, or brew some more tea, or fold laundry, or curl up with a book of poetry. The options are, I’m afraid, endless.