I am just now barely beginning to emerge from my flu-induced cocoon of suffering (yes, I said Cocoon of Suffering. I did. And I meant it.) and find myself with mid-terms to grade and two grant applications still to finish — yikes! Ah, well. The mid-terms shall be a pleasure, and the grant applications should be finished by the end of the evening.

I have done something important already this evening, which is to make three very-belated purchases. The first is a subscription to Inch, a fantastic magazine of short poems and short fiction edited by none other than the fantastic Mr. Ross White (who has, I certainly hope, already seen the Slowest. Nom. Ever.). It’s rare to see a journal pay such attention to the short poem, which is such an important form. I also purchased two books from Bull City Press, Ellen C. Bush’s Licorice and Michael McFee’s The Smallest Talk. I’ve read a few of Bush’s poems, and think they’re amazing, and am psyched to read McFee’s book after his insightful article in The Writer’s Chronicle (complete with a shout-out to Bull City and Mr. Ross White).

That was a good deal of hyper-linking, and a good deal more energy than I’ve expended in a while. It might be time for a nap. But first: today was such a gray and awful day — I spent most of it reminding myself that Spring is just around the corner. And to further remind myself, and you, of this, what better to do than to post this poem? What better way to fight the gray?

n Just-

spring when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it’s

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far and wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it’s

spring

and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles

far

and

wee

e.e. cummings