Dear Writer,

My bed is made from wood, stained with grains and farmland and ringing with the sound of ducks after their morning swim, shaking off excess water, singing to each other. My pillows are green, and my feet stick out of the bed reaching towards the floor--it is creamy and smooth, and there are dried daisies in strategic spots so on the right day, at the right time, if you open the bedroom door and catch the window drift, you smell how they used to smell. How they still smell. My messages arrive every morning, and I get them as soon as I wake.

I sleep and leave my bed for the flower floor and go to the mailbox and open it up. I am always excited--this is different writing than what we do; please don’t feel pushed aside. These are letters written in haiku, and they come with...

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