Saturday, August 13, 2022
HomePoetryOld 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.



Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here

Latest Stories