Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing from my childhood bedroom at the farm. The walls are still white, though one corner has separated from the ceiling after years of carrying the weight of all these books. The bed sits so that corner is always behind me. On the wall across from me—where I can see—hangs my dried wedding bouquet and a painting of Robert Frost. His expression fixed somewhere between condolence and awe, always appraisal. He's been watching me grow up.

Outside the window, my grandfather's Newton apple tree has gone almost bare. Its leaves gather in the grass, brittle and brown as the wildflowers bundled on my wall. The branches are thin now, and each year I wonder how much longer they can keep the line alive.

I'm rereading "I Could Give All to Time" and Frost says he could give over everything except what he's already crossed to safety with. From this bed, I can't quite see the tree's shadow on the red sleigh outside, only a faint geometry of memory. The farm keeps changing—walls mended, burials nearly home, no apples picked after—but that shadow stays golden somehow. By its measure, the wind could see.

Frost stares down, knowing I haven't crossed yet and imploring me not to let time take it all. Then a gust shakes the branches, and one more apple drops clean into the grass.

And I am There.

Love, Annee