Early in the eighties I watched a new, I think, BBC production of A Midsummer Night's Dream.  One Wednesday that winter we'd gotten seventeen inches of snow.  Thursday had been bitter cold and on Friday it snowed nineteen more inches.  Odd conditions another day had lain on an ice encasement of epic proportions.  Spring had come, of course, and we'd had three weeks of green relief.  Then came the Dream, and when I looked out the window afterward it had snowed thoroughly and a couplet came to mind.  Over the next several days a poem happened straight through, line by line, no going back.