Joan, the first thing you will notice is everything. Futile to describe all the colors, the sounds, the way air will wrench open your mouth and fill you, bursting, till you breathe. Futile because I can’t remember the moment—none of us can— and, even if I could, I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you. What I can say is that we are all here waiting for you, and that everything is fine. I can say that your newness will be a symbol, not just for poets, but a symbol in the way that a fresh chance, a fresh start, is always a symbol— a symbol only for itself. I can say that you are loved already, that you are joining a world which, yes, is maybe not the world you deserve in some ways— not as clean, not as green or alive as in the past, but Joan, we’re doing better now at other things than we were before, and we do try hard, will try even harder once you’re here—a vow we make every time a new member of the species arrives (you’ll see), so yes, Joan, you will be a symbol, and then you will be a woman—the reverse story of your namesake all those centuries before you, though you will be brave like her, Joan, because you will have to be. I once knew a man for weeks before I noticed the word “courage” tattooed on his calf, perhaps because, in a way, we all have that word imprinted on our flesh, given to us at birth, like our names, because we all need it, and Joan, I’m not trying to give you advice, because you have a mother for that, and because I don’t know enough yet to give any, so Joan, the point is this—we are all here waiting for you, and everything is fine.