A Letter: On A Morning, One Week After You Left
The garden's fence was dressed in morning glory.
One liverwort's crescent held its last gemma.
A cruciform blossom evoked the trilemma -
How can that Soul be sent to Upper Story?
The dampened soil was fresh with petrichor
(Which I discovered when the rain had stopped
Its long unceasing murmur; up I propped
The window in that room of vellichor
You always sit to read in when you come).
Beyond the fence, dew-dropped viridity
Was dancing on the spring-leaves of the Plum
And Apricot in the orchard. Don't you see
You should be here? The evening crickets hum
Now as I write. I miss our talks. Miss me?
We'd take our walks up to the mountain's heights
As dusk was falling, just to see the stars,
Sans cityscape, or tree-lines reaching far
Above horizons. Then, those twinkling lights,
In number, brightness, seen on new moon nights,
Were numinous. Surrounding, it was dark,
And icy - breath was visible - but that arc's
Celestial gemstones gave us such delight
That all were silent of it. Now, today,
If you should ask, "Where's Venus?" or "That gleam
Of red - what is it?" "Sisters? Where are they?"
I'd show you in an instant, for it seems
Those hikes, dried apricots, boots caked with clay,
Then millions of stars, is ever in my dreams.