in 1975, three friends and I rented an old house on Cranbury Island off the coast of Maine. We read, and wrote, and drew and painted, shopped and cooked, walked and swam. Last night I heard one was doing a poetry reading at Johns Hopkins where I was visiting my daughter. I stepped into the back of the lecture hall in time to hear a half-hour of wonderful poems wonderfully read. As the students cleared the hall, I walked over to say hello. It has been so long, and I fear I don't look the same, so I introduced myself by name. A look of delight came over my dear friend's face and the 35 years slipped away for a moment. Last night I dreamt I was on Cranbury Island again
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