March 14, 2026: “The Forest,” Calm Before, “When My Sister Died”

Well, here I sit at home, waiting for the Blizzard to begin.  NOTE:  the capital “B” is intentional.

I’ve seen several social media posts from meteorologists calling this storm “historic.”  You know when the National Weather Service’s watches and warnings are measuring snow in feet versus inches you’re pretty much fucked.  Since a day or so ago, everything I’ve read has said, “Expect one to three FEET.”  I’ve even seen some forecasts saying four feet isn’t out of the question.

So, my wife and I did everything we could to prepare today for what’s coming.  We went grocery shopping this morning.  I hit the laundromat this afternoon.  Pretty much all the churches in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan have already canceled Sunday services.  (Except the Catholics.  Go figure.)  Thus, I don’t have to play tomorrow morning.  (I was scheduled to play at a Lutheran church.)

Everywhere I went today, I could feel a kind of tension, as if everyone knows a war is going to start tomorrow and we’re all just enjoying our last day of peace before the bombs start falling.  (Now, if I worked in the White House, I’d be blaming this storm on the Democrats.)  Right now, it’s literally and proverbially the calm before the storm.  Up until about an hour ago, the sky was painfully blue, not a cloud in sight.  Will there be a power outage?  Is my dog going to crap in the house instead of going outside?  Are the trees in my backyard going to survive?  Is my roof strong enough to support three or four feet of snow?

Answer:  I don’t know.

It’s difficult living in this state of anticipation.  A friend just texted me:  “Fuck this shit,  Just bring it on.”

Marie Howe goes for a walk in the woods . . . 

The Forest

by: Marie Howe

A mast year for acorns, so like marbles and so many

we’re afraid of falling.  I walk sideways

down the hill, holding a long stick; Kate goes before me

wearing her orange knit cap.

The broken trees lean on the unbroken trees

which will one day be broken.

Howe is afraid of falling.  She’s also concerned about the unbroken trees, knowing full well they will eventually give way, either under the weight of the already broken trees or (maybe) because of a blizzard with 60 mile per hour winds.

I have lived through many tough winters in the U.P.  This particular blizzard is, I believe, the third one we’ve had this winter:  one right before Thanksgiving, one right after Christmas, and now one right before Saint Patrick’s Day.  And, at the moment, no single meteorologist (from television to the National Weather Service) will say whether it’s going to be one foot or four feet of snow.  Last time I checked, there’s a big difference between 12 inches and 48 inches.

I know I will be shoveling a lot tomorrow.  And the next day,  And the next.  Until about Tuesday evening, my snow scoop is going to be my best friend.  (If you don’t know what a snow scoop is, you are definitely NOT from the U.P.  Google it.)  That is about the only certainty I have tonight.  Other than that, your guess is as good as mine.

Maybe we’ll get three feet of snow, or maybe we won’t.  Maybe trees will fall, or maybe they won’t.  Maybe the electricity will stay on, or maybe it won’t.  Maybe Michael B. Jordan will win an Oscar tomorrow night, or maybe he won’t.  That’s a lot of maybes.

Saint Marty wrote a haiku for this evening about something he never expected . . . 

When My Sister Died

by: Martin Achatz

she left as sunlight

unzipped night, let the creamy

breast of morning breathe

March 17, 2025: "The Couple," Saint Patrick’s Day, "Reek Sunday on Croagh Patrick"

Yes, it is Saint Patrick’s Day.  No, I didn’t drink green beer or eat corned beef and cabbage, and I completely forgot to wear any green clothing.  (I was saved by the fact that my winter coat is green, and there was a splash of green in my socks.). 

These days, I’m just completely distracted by social media posts and news reports about the latest Agent Orange idiocy.  Just this afternoon, I saw a car pulled over to the side of U.S. 41 driving home.  Behind that car was a State Police cruiser, and behind the State Police cruiser were two vehicles marked “Border Control.” Yes, even the Upper Peninsula of Michigan isn’t immune to the three-ring circus of the Oval Office.  

Mostly, I’m worried about the future of my kids.  I was speaking to my daughter the other day, and she said how terrified of the government she is.  The world they’re going to inherit is going to be vastly different from the world I inherited from my parents.

Sharon Olds writes about the relationship between her son and daughter . . .

The Couple

by:  Sharon Olds

On the way for the country, they fall asleep

in the back seat, those enemies,

rulers of separate countries, sister and

brother.  Her big hard head

lolls near his narrow oval skull

until they are crown to crown, brown

hair mingling like velvet.  Mouths

open, the rosebud and her cupid’s bow,

they dream against each other, her calm

almond eyes and his round blue eyes

closed, quivering like a trout.  Their toes

touching opposite doors, their hands in

loose fists, their heads together in

on consciousness, they look like a small

royal bride and groom, the bride still a

head taller, married as children

in the Middle Ages, for purposes of state,

fighting all day, and finding their only

union in sleep, in the dark solitary

power of the dream—the dream of ruling the world.

All siblings have their differences.  I had three brothers and five sisters growing up.  Three of those siblings have died in the past ten years.  My two remaining brothers are Trumpers.  My sisters align more with my cultural and political standpoints.  Not completely, but close enough.  I love my siblings, but I don’t get along with all of them. 

My son adores his sister, and the feeling is mutual.  Sure, they have their disagreements.  There have been blowups between them, but those storms don’t last very long.  Then they’re back gaming together online at night.  My son can be quite . . . passionate and mercurial with his emotions.  My daughter, on the other hand, takes after me—always thinking things through, trying to see an issue from all sides.

I know that my daughter and son love each other.  Long after I’m gone, when I’m just a forgotten book in the library, they will be close friends.  I’m sure of that.  From the beginning, my son has cherished his sister’s attention.  My daughter waited eight years for her brother, and she has adored him since the day she first held him as an infant.

So, no matter what happens in the United States—whether the constitutional democracy is preserved or an Orange dictatorship prevails, my kids will have each other’s backs.  That gives me comfort as this country edges closer and closer to a Margaret Atwood dystopia.  My daughter and son are going to be alright.

Maybe we can just pray to Saint Patrick, asking him to drive the snakes out of the White House and Congress.  

Saint Marty wrote a poem in celebration of Saint Patrick’s Day based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

To celebrate St. Patrick's Day, write a poem about Ireland or something Irish.  It can be Delaney's Bar or the Book of Kells, Guinness beer or a Celtic cross.  If you're Irish yourself, explore your own heritage.  But even if you're not Irish, make sure to include images of Ireland and Irish culture.  You can start the poem with the line, The last time I was in Ireland or I've never been to Ireland, but . . .

Reek Sunday on Croagh Patrick

by: Martin Achatz

Thousands climb to the summit

every July, some barefoot to atone

for that one-night stand in college

and the abortion after, or the cheeseburger

eaten on Good Friday when Christ

hung on the cross like a graduation

picture.  Even Saint Patrick fasted

forty days at the top, tortured by

a murder of demonic birds, a female

serpent named Corra offering him

colcannon, barmbrack, soda bread

salty as tears.  My friend scaled

Croagh Patrick in her sandals,

her feet already hard as diamonds, 

not seeking forgiveness or penance,

but simply to breathe the holy air,

touch with her toes the hungry stones.

This was before she got sick and needed

a miracle, when her life seemed

endless as the summer solstice.

She sat, read Seamus Heaney poems

to the grasses and winds, felt

displaced in time, Corra coiled

around Patrick's naked body, testing

his faith with her forked tongue,

both of them robed in sunlight.

My friend brought me a rock

from that sacred place, on its surface

a smudge of mineral, maybe hematite

or copper, in the shape of a figure

(Adam?  Bigfoot?  Patrick?) strolling

like a prayer toward God's distant eardrum.