We had a blizzard all through the night, making driving after thesis seminar stretching time in strange ways, but I'm fortunately listening to a Benjamin Franklin biography that kept my mind contented.
At home, I've been reading through a book of poems a day, similar to something I did in May (oh, but May rhymes so much nicer than December!), and reading through Sophie Cabot Black's The Descent, reminds me of something I read in another book I'm paging through this week, The Wounded Surgeon: Confessional and Transformation in Six American Poets (Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop, John Berryman, Randall Jarrell, Delmore Schwartz, and Sylvia Plath)--something I should have already realized, but the concept of capitalization of that first word on each line, as in this dead bird poem in the collection, and how that act of capitalizing then emphasizes the line as opposed to the sentence.
I had always eschewed that capitalization as something basic, or Microsoft-Word-lazy.
I love having my eyes opened, even when those concepts seem elementary.