I managed to squeeze a short walk into my morning routine. What a Friday! The light was a pale, comforting yellow it only ever gets on a morning after a proper snowfall. It wasn’t cold, at least until the wind picked up speed and force, but I kept thinking about a line from Ada Limon’s poem I’d read last evening: “It’s cold today so the sun’s a lie.” I love poetry because it’s the only language I know for telling the truth. What is truth if not a tangled knot of contradictions? And where, except poetry, can we find as much space to hold all these contradictions together?