VirginiaSo I am once again a riverswollen at its shores; yetit's a hollow thought thatlife is fertile within me.Better to have lips of frostthan a flooded field; thosebits of rooms swept away--a chair, a tattered doll.In my waning, I do notforget moon language;this eternal push and pull,the experience of blue.
Time and PlaceMy dear one,If you asked me how I am, now, what I am up to, I would have so much to tell you. It has been a dry summer so far, and the sun's arc across the sky is a lazy, lolling one most days. Even the water from the well is not as cold as it should be. Our cats stretch their lengths on warm limestone showing in bare spots in the yard and they sleep for hours. Otherwise, you'd think this place was without life at all, for every other barnyard creature hides from merciless heat. The garden is not doing so well; we bring water for its nourishment, but it was a late year for planting. The celery is small and withered yellow. The tomatoes are tiny, too---hard, still green. Our melons have died. All the flowers hang their pretty petals. But I drift across the grass when I go and unfurl my body in the shade-trees' cover. I do not write or draw. That urge in me is waiting like birds not yet stirring at dawn. There are whispers, though---promises.Thus I am not without hope. My dr