On Reading Old Letters
When I say I love you, or I miss you,
it is because I am safe in knowing
I can hear you again in minutes, hours-
or, if I am so compelled,
I can fly through the sky and see you.
Some sailor, his eyes on the endless seas,
writes letters he ties with bits of string.
To his lover, who waits for him at home,
he is a light that shines at the edge of this world.
For him, she is a dream whose songs
grow more like the waves each passing day.
Whose love is more real?
His voice, grown fainter by the years,
rebukes me when, during our fights,
I don't pick up the phone.
6 October 2008
it is because I am safe in knowing
I can hear you again in minutes, hours-
or, if I am so compelled,
I can fly through the sky and see you.
Some sailor, his eyes on the endless seas,
writes letters he ties with bits of string.
To his lover, who waits for him at home,
he is a light that shines at the edge of this world.
For him, she is a dream whose songs
grow more like the waves each passing day.
Whose love is more real?
His voice, grown fainter by the years,
rebukes me when, during our fights,
I don't pick up the phone.
6 October 2008