I read this collection in college 25 years ago, and it's never left me. Voigt's way with metaphor, physical description, the *feel* of emotions, is unique. Time and again, she chooses a simple adjective which somehow illuminates a physical sensation perfectly (like in the opening poem, foreshadowing the coming of Fall, "before the heavy drop of the apples", or the sense of being a middle child, writing to her mother, who "grew in the shady places, rootbound, without blossoms"). For years, I've read passages of these to friends, who typically react "Who IS this woman... and why have I not heard of her?" I know Voigt's other books, but this one remains a favorite for its clarity, intimacy and subtle profundity. I thank her for it.