You know about my whirlwind manuscript--A Month in Summer--triggered this past spring by a series of mid-nineteenth-century diaries. The central character is a Maine woman, an on-again-off-again schoolteacher, who lives with her brother, a small-time farmer. When she's not at school, she's in the kitchen or the garden or the barn, or mending in the parlor. As I wrote these small poems, I sometimes had the sensation I was sewing a sampler or making buttonholes . . . working in tiny stitches, fixing my eyes to the point of a needle.

I mentioned that sensation to my friend Teresa. And she said, "You ought to collaborate with a needlework artist. I think I know someone." So with much diffidence I sent a note to Donna Sharrett, whose stunning work rises from historical styles (e.g., Victorian antimacassars) while incorporating a variety of materials, such as guitar strings and bits of clothing.

What with one thing and another, Donna and I didn't end up talking until yesterday. But when we did, it was wonderful--like suddenly acquiring a new friend. Her engagement with the past, the way in which she steps into her work, her connections with garden and landscape: everything feels so recognizable and sympathetic, yet mysterious. She's not a representational artist, so anything she makes that connects to this collection will be slant, but already she's thinking about using nineteenth-century collars or cuffs, about sewing words into patterns. In these early stages we can only begin to imagine final results, or how they would be displayed: maybe a gallery exhibit or two. But I'm fizzling with excitement, and think she is too.