My grandfather writes letters with a careful hand. His words are simple, chosen, traced with care, as if they had grown out of his long organist's fingers, which I have not seen in some time, and which I imagine may strangely resemble those of Daphne, just at the moment she stretches into her new form, escaping. He has always seemed to hear the whispers of the trees, being their confrère, prepared to join them.

in ramos bracchia crescunt
pes modo tam velox pigris radicibus haeret