Wheat, not oats, dear. I’m afraid.
... and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.
– Wheat, not oats, dear. I’m afraid
if it’s wheat it’s none of your sowing,
nevertheless I’d like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.
Text: Elizabeth Bishop, Letter to N.Y.
(aus: A Cold Spring, 1955)