Sublime

although the men I have known have had many virtues and have taken me to live in many places I have come to love, they have never been John Wayne, and they have never taken me to that bend in the river where the cottonwoods grow. Deep in that part of my heart where the artificial rain forever falls, that is still the line I wait to hear.

She has what writers like to describe as a hint of sadness around her mouth and is the sort of woman whose family, centuries past, would find after her death a journal of poems that no one knew she’d been writing her whole life, or a perfumed packet of fading letters from an ill-fated love who’d been dead for decades.