'Always the weather,
writing its book of the world,
returns you to me.
Ordinary days were best,
while we worked over poems
in out separate rooms.
I remember watching you gaze
out the January window
into the garden of snow
and ice, your face rapt
as you imagined burgundy lilies.''
-- From "Letter with No Address,'' by Donald Hall, of Wilmot, N.H., a former U.S. poet laureate. He refers to his late wife, the poet Jane Kenyon.
