Shimmer inks, cream paper, shelves and shelves of books— I've been going through the accumulation  of the years. Once again,  this ritual to (every now and then) take inventory of what I've kept  in boxes or folded carefully away.  We're told we already have everything we need. How many appetites can one person set loose  through the thick, unmown grass  of this one life? What's too much,  too many? You might get a butterfly  or lizard pin from me in the mail,  a clutch of Japanese print bookmarks; a leather journal embossed with  the figures of the three Fates. One  spins the thread, the second  measures its length; the third  harvests it with her shears. Tomorrow and tomorrow,  even a miser couldn't count the leaves that grow back whole fields in dappled light.