Dear Faraway Friend,
I think of you often
and imagine you deep
in your pages, reading
and writing.
My poems are
sporadic, coming
in darts and dares,
fits and splits.
Winter is slow and
plodding, both
body and mind.
As always
I long for sun —
but I'm getting better
at securing the shine
of cold and gray.
I suppose every
life has its theme.
What's yours?
With love
& goodwill,
Drew
* * *
The letter that never arrived. The letter that arrived but after
its intended recipient moved. The letter that you folded in half
and slipped into a book. The letter which let fall a powder
like sugar from its folds. The letter, burned over a candle flame,
which turned its letters into ash. The letter which told me what I
wanted to know, and what I didn't. The letter, being that which I will
never now unsee. The letter which gave you the courage for words
you could never otherwise say. Dear, most letters begin. To whom
it may concern. Being a way to open or break open, break in or down.
Dearly beloved,
our deepest regrets.
Cordially yours.
* * *
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As always, thanks for reading & writing.