It's barely dawn here, and last night's snowfall coats the branches and roofs with a vague, phosphorescent layer of light. Tom's truck is pulling out of the driveway, the boys are still asleep, the house is warm, and I am drinking coffee and reading about Walt Whitman and Malcolm X. Eventually I will get back to talking about all these men in my life, but for the moment I'm letting them sleep or drive away. I think I will talk about you instead, because the year's end is approaching, a moment for taking traditional stock of one's blessings, and this, after all, is a letter to you.

When I was a child, I thought that being a published writer might feel like being a queen. As it turns out, being a writer feels extremely non-queenly. But having readers is a strange and wonderful pleasure . . . nerve-wracking, too, of course, though that, in its own way, is a good deal of the pleasure. You make me think; you catch me up, kindly, on my errors and unfair assumptions. You remind me that words are conversation and that intellectual engagement can also be friendship. The emails you send, the comments you post are constant reminders of the web of thinking minds and hearts that books can create. And yes, I do realize that "hearts" is one of those words that poetry workshoppers eschew, words like "angels" and "love" and "beauty"--words that are too easily sentimental. But, you know, hearts do exist, and so do love and beauty; and for all I know, now and again angels exist as well. Milton says they do.

So thank you for being here, reading this letter and sending your words and thoughts and puzzlements back to me. Happy old year, happy new year. Take care, and I'm thinking of you.