Torpor of Sleet

Lots of sunshine today, although it was still pretty cold. Tomorrow the warmup is supposed to begin. I phoned in to the care conference, although I missed about half of it due to phone glitches. I didn't have anything to say anyway, since those who were present in real life covered pretty much everything. Thank goodness, the annoying manager who is so hard to cope with did not come. Instead, the friendly and helpful direct care supervisor presided. He knows Mother and is much easier to talk to. I don't know whether anything was really accomplished. Our concerns were presented and heard, and he may be able to do something about some of them. Mr. Science, bless his over-optimistic heart, is arranging for Mother to use her iPad to make phone calls and watch movies. He has plugged the famous earphones in so she'll be able to hear better. I honestly do not think she'll be able to manage this, but he is ever hopeful that there is a technological fix, and willingly devotes himself to creating it. I hope he won't be too disappointed. When the conference ended, I was so glad I didn't go all the way there for a pitiful hour of repeating things I already know. I looked around, realized I was home, and went "ahhhh." I will visit my mother at a more auspicious time.

Then I started trying to figure out what I'm going to do next with my writing life--a subject on which I've been procrastinating, because it is so very complicated and discouraging. The Sparrowhawk offered to help make decision trees. The very idea makes me feel that I need a nap. Perhaps I'll try that tomorrow.

On Brighid's Day, it's traditional to post poetry, so here's a little Coleridge--random, but containing frost. I think "Ministry of Frost" could be a good fantasy title.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eve-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.