. . . the effects of her being . . . on those around her
were incalculably diffusive. ~ George Eliot, Middlemarch
A letter, postmarked thirty years ago, addressed
in his scrawl—I lift it from the box of grad school
memories, unfold the pages: salutation, summary
of his chapter notes, strategy, affirmation. He follows
with news. He’ll spend the summer painting walls—
bedroom, study, maybe change the color of the kitchen.
I should have been a housepainter, he writes. Results
of the work are clear. Not like marking papers.
His words for me were soil, sun, and sap—
my taproot’s hold. I slide the letter back
in its sleeve, recall a sprawling grove of aspen
near Ketchum, shoots of one root reaching
more than a mile, rhizomatous—their quick rising,
breadth of sweep, gray-white bones gleaming in sunlight.