Wednesday, October 21, 2020
Home Poetry Old letters

Old letters

Did we not, as children, let the seasons

pour from our bosoms- artlessly,

as buds bringing to light. Colors

 

I painted words in pristine

tonality. The subject

watered by years of unwilled

 

partings. Of pages beginning

with Dear, and

ending with Love, always

 

love. At once

heavy and yet has never

felt lighter, clasped between

 

my fingertips—

yellowing crisp petals unfolding

ancient flowers in my hands.

 

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