For the writer-friend moving to Houston

I imagine her on a broad Texan expanse, hands shoved deep in pockets, looking hard into a soft-setting sun. She is changing on the inside though she does not know it yet. She is expanding like the house she told me about, the one where you couldn’t tell from the outside but inside little corridors were springing up, little halls and spaces. And I think looking out onto those wide plains and scrubby grasses and deep purple skies that she feels way down in her pockets, right where she keeps her spiral-bound and a pen, I think she will grow and eat up the swiftness of the change and the horizon’s empty girth, and she will have a vastness, too. When the sun slips below the line of distant scrub and tar, then she will turn inside to write, and to fill it.