Washington’s weather slunk in today with freezing drizzle. The kind that requires chipping away at the iced-over car door just to get into the ice box.

For good or bad, when we stop and pay attention, we might notice that the weather affects our writing. Our thinking. Our motivation. My poet friend lamented; it’so awful out that she can’t compose.

Instead of kicking ourselves, another option is no blame. Just loving observation. Does the weather affect your internal go-meter? Does anything else?

When I have a cold, my sinuses swell into my brain and steal my IQ. I make tea. I walk around dragging the tail of my electric blanket’s extension cord tethering me to the wall. I wrap Julie’s lovingly knitted scarf around  my sore throat  like a hug. I invent new comfort foods. Then I write the recipe. I tell myself: I wrote.

What do you do, mindful writers?

WORDS

trapped crystalline in
my frozen mind
burrow under blankets
like my doughnut doggy transforming
air to lead if anyone tries to
drag her out
from under
quilted covers.

Sleep, baby.

It’s okay to curl up
snug and warm.

The squirrels will still be there tomorrow.