It may be December, but November weather is upon us. Not too late to think about these lines from Maurice Sendak's charming poem "Chicken Soup with Rice":
"In November's gusty gale, I will flop my flippy tale.
I'll spout hot soup, I'll be a whale.
Spouting once, spouting twice, spouting chicken soup with rice."
Today I hear the wind chimes clattering; they are the treble notes above the bass roar that is the wind. There is such commotion outside that it's hard to think about leaving the house.
I would rather think about reading "Chicken Soup with Rice" to the girls when they were young, their scent warm from the bath, their footed p.j.s on, each of them clamoring for "their month."
That's what will keep me warm when I head outside.