This morning it is raining, raining, raining, but I must gird my loins to drive to Bangor in this mess because I have a noontime judging gig. For the past couple of weeks, I have been reading poems by Anonymous, and today is the day that I must eat bagels with my fellow judge and our very pleasant handler and muse over their future.

I've started rereading Hayden Carruth's Letters to Jane, mostly because it's thin and easy to pull out while waiting in line at parent-teacher conferences. And it's a lovely book, really. In case you haven't heard of it before, the book collects the letters that Carruth wrote to Jane Kenyon (Donald Hall's wife and also a fine poet) while she was dying of leukemia. It reminds me of this blog in a way . . . letters with no real point or prospect of an answer. Just a flow of talk.

Anyway here's a sample. For some reason, it makes me happy.

I don't know if you know Francine [Prose] and her work. Myself, I only know Francine. I've never read any of her books. And I'm pretty sure she has never read any of mine. It's strange in a way, but delightful too: two writers who haven't read each other's work and are content--more than content--to be friends on a simply human level. I like her immensely.