Oh, yesterday, that one, we all cry out. Oh, that one! How rich and possible everything was! How ripe, ready, lavish, and filled with excitement—how hopeful we were on those summer days, under the clean, white racing clouds.
My friend has not called. I send her poems. She says she likes them, though they tell too much about farm life, too little about me. When I visit her in the summer, she says she hates her job, she’d like for me to live closer, that she’s afraid...