women are born twice.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.

Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.

In a dream you are never eighty.

The summer has seized you, as when, last month in Amalfi, I saw lemons as large as your desk-side globe-that miniature map of the world-and I could mention, too, the market stalls of mushrooms and garlic bugs all engorged. Or I even think of the orchard next door, where the berries are done and the apples are beginning to swell. And once, with our first backyard,I remember I planted an acre of yellow beans we couldn't eat.

She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.