Blessed snow.

A winter storm on the Front Range mixes misery for some into a general joy as much of the city shuts down operations. Despite the mayor's best efforts—word is there are 80 plows working round the clock—there simply aren't enough resources to make the streets passable.

Schools close. Businesses close. Some stay open out of necessity, and workers trudge and slide toward their jobs, but many of us are given the gift of sudden and unexpected free time.

I drove to the grocery store yesterday, when there were still but a few inches of snow on the ground, and stocked up on provisions. I spent the afternoon in the realm of Slow Food: a large pot of chili con carne, replete with jalapenos for kick and a porter ale broth. I never would have had the chance to do this on a typical Wednesday, a mid-week workday that would have seen me clawing at the piles of papers on my desk.

I woke before dawn today to greet the good news: another snow day on hand. We are buried under nearly two feet of the stuff, and it's so very beautiful to behold.

By 7:30 I already had two loaves of sourdough in the oven and seven pounds of heirloom tomatoes (skinned, seeded, and frozen in September) thawing on the counter. I'll stir up a monster batch of spaghetti sauce this afternoon, garlicky, chunky, replete with veggies and a dash of red wine, and let the rich, sweet scent permeate every corner of the house.

And it will be a good day for poetry. I read some poetry every day, but rarely do I have a chance to detour into an entire book and linger there for hours. Today, I'll have that chance.