I'm afraid this latest missive from my distant abode comes with tidings of ill health. A consumptive cough periodically wracks my already morally degenerate form, and I find myself bringing forth vast quantities of ill-favoured substances as my body attempts to eject the poison within.
Moreover, the weather here remains stubbornly inclement. The usually crisp white snow of this season has occasionally been besmirched by rain (rain!) and thereafter the arctic conditions have rendered walking a slippery and hazardous undertaking.
Beyond that, these occasional climatic forays above freezing have awoken many of the local bears before their hibernation would naturally end. Luckily the bears are a fair tempered lot, and seldom fix upon passers-by as a possible source of nutrition. When they do, they are easily appeased by the poetry of John Donne - although I must admit my alarm is rising as my stock of Donne's verse dwindles. Once you have told a bear a poem he or she returns to his cave and regales the rest of his "gang" with said poem. Hence the poem loses all power over the other bears of that area - them having heard it already.
These are hard times Marcia, and I would not wish them upon anyone. Except perhaps Casper, that buffoon.