So I got on the train today only to see a pin stuck to the radiator at my feet. It said (with a picture of roses, for some reason) Words Are Meaningless And Forgettable. What an unkind thing to leave where a writer might stumble across it. Winter in Boston is bad enough with the unkind weather and existential dread. But to tell someone for whom words are her stock in trade that, nope, worthless, sorry! Cruel.

Now, given that we are coming up to Valentine’s Day, this might just be a bid by florists to get people to buy more flowers, although I guarantee you that any florists you may know will have several bandaged fingers on Monday. This is like how I always have chalkdust on my right sleeve and a stripe across the back of my jacket: occupational hazard. And as a writing teacher and professional poet, I can also guarantee that there is probably just as much blood on the love poem you get this weekend as there is on your roses. The difference will be the source.