These are not paper letters, I know. They do not arrive in envelopes. And yet they can be read by the fire, or at the kitchen table while the soup is on and the bread is in the oven. They can be examined like leaves from the yard at your desk by the window. They bear no scent. There are no handwritten clues. And yet you can imagine both. And as you do, you become the letter yourself. Two authors, two writers, two recipients. And a multitude of messages, one for each thought, each glimpse, each silence, each present, each past, each eternity. All in the moment. And when you look up, and around you, and in and out and beyond, to the graves and the wind and the snow, to the meadow and the fallen tree, to the granite-sleeping shadow, to the deer and her young on the narrow path that leads to the still water, what do you know? Everything. Everything. All. And what you know is what I feel.