Somewhere in the course of a day, I try to find ledges on which to rest. Yesterday, I brought out bookbinding tools and a box of ephemera— things that caught my eye or were part of something else once important, but it was the seemingly inconsequential thing I wanted to save. The lettering on the side of a pasta box, a piece of vellum from an envelope; a rivet case with a pull-out tab like a drawer. I wish I could call my daughter in what people used to call the old country. Or rather, I wish she would answer my calls. But here it is, another year-end approaching. We are all no longer young. I have troubling dreams where we lie down on a road stretching from the front yard into the dark blue distance. Who are all these people crowded together, their shoulders touching, waiting for some kind of sign?