The letter I did not write to Ursula Le Guin

Your writing has always felt so clean to me,
like a room swept out in anticipation.
Not sterile — soft-edged, everything made by hand.
Neat. Straightened gently.
A room passed through by many, a place of history and expectation both —
bright, full of air, suffused with warmth
and perhaps a breeze or the evocation, through the open window,
of distant winged things.
Such a comfort to me, that place that is your writing.
Aired out, turned over, like the guest room in a monastery,
where every one of a thousand travelers stops
with astonishment and thinks —
all this was done for me.