Snow Day

A snow day on March 1st? Unheard of in these parts this winter - we haven't had a snow day since November 4, 2011. It's been (indoors) a lovely, relaxing day with lots of knitting, spinning, and exercise. I started listening to 11/22/63 and am enjoying it immensely. It's been awhile since a audiobook has captivated me like this.

Great progress on spinning Falkland - I finished the first half (approx. 2 ounces) and started the second half. I hope to dedicate some time on Sunday to washing and flicking all the yarn I've spun recently - I have four or five different types of handspun awaiting this final process. Then I can figure out what the yarn weights are. I find that I spin mostly DK or sport weight with the occasional worsted weight thrown in. I would love to spin finely enough to produce a laceweight yarn. 

Cruising along on the Malthese Flowers shawl, as well. I almost let it go into hibernation earlier this winter, but I pulled it out last week and haven't put it down since. It's still far from being even 50% complete, but that's okay.

Tomorrow is my 53rd birthday. We're going to see "The Descendants" at the Gilson Cafe/Cinema. What with all the dining out this week (Monday, Tuesday, tomorrow, Saturday, and Sunday), I don't think tomorrow's weigh-in will be an occasion for celebratory fireworks, but I am feeling SO MUCH HEALTHIER and energetic than I was at Thanksgiving. And my clothes fit better. Numbers don't mean quite so much as those two intangibles.

No photos today - it would just be more of the same, albeit a bit more.

Dare I post this poem? Am I tempting the gods of frozen precipitation?

Last Snow

By Heid E. Erdrich

Dumped wet and momentary on a dull ground

that’s been clear but clearly sleeping, for days.

Last snow melts as it falls, piles up slush, runs in first light

making a music in the streets we wish we could keep.

Last snow. That’s what we’ll think for weeks to come.

Close sun sets up a glare that smarts like a good cry.

We could head north and north and never let this season go.

Stubborn beast, the body reads the past in the change of light,

knows the blow of grief in the time of trees’ tight-fisted leaves.

Stubborn calendar of bone. Last snow. Now it must always be so.