I just wrote a poem about my refusal to do what you suggested last week. It's funny (strange? annoying? interesting?) that I really sometimes don't know how I feel about something until I start writing about it. I knew I felt strongly about not taking your suggestion, but if you'd asked me why I didn't want to, I wouldn't have known how to explain it. But I understand now. What I love so much about poetry is that so many of my poems seem to take on a life of their own, to write themselves, or some invisible force writes them, once I get the first line... it's that first line where I sometimes get hung up. But tonight, I got the first line after a few false starts, and as usual once I knew it was right, the rest of the poem flowed from there. Maybe I'll share it with you on Friday. Or not.