The fact is that I'm remembering my writing workshops thirteen or so years ago, going out into the snowy dusk, down one mountain and up the next, to get to the cozy living room, lit with soft light from a few table lamps. Chairs would be pushed companionably around the trunk in the middle of the room, each time holding something different: old photographs, maybe; a collection of stones and feathers; fabrics. A cup of tea, and then we'd begin, each writing in a notebook (or not writing, maybe); thinking.
Then, the most scary time: reading, which was something I couldn't do for quite some time. But I remember Laura's poems especially, and Gene's, too, of course.