Dear Rebecca
It’s noon right now, and clouds press on the oaks lining my field. My entire sky is white with brushstrokes of gray. Though it’s terrifying, temporary blindness—like a sheet pulled over your eyes—is the best kind of blindness. Afterwards, it’s a relief to see anything, even a piece of black construction paper with stars punched out. Maybe a poem can be like a beehive. I wish you’d explain. Here, not all of the rust- colored leaves have fallen and every day I realize that I am not in charge. What is the sky like where you live? I can wait as long as you need. Yours sincerely, Kathleen
