Letters of December

A letter

before it starts to wander.

Two lips pressed in silence.

Ears bending to brain’s curious child

holding one finger up

to test for wind.

I have lost the bridge to you.

The landslide brings all trees

to their knees

opens in every which way

the body

yet somehow through many

great storms

you are the tree

that survives.

Your hair grew long

while you waited.

The lower portion of your face

hides behind a mask.

My fingers play with a strand,

there is music.

Surprisingly

the nursing home allows wolves.

I am kept outside on the patio.

Green eyes slowly turn toward the door.

Before we know it

two wolves sit beside each other.

I wonder have you forgotten me?

You remember, the light comes on.

Your face is a map my fingers like to trace.

Even this morning in the northlands

that warmth stays.

I carve out my heart between us.

I offer it to you but you are no longer hungry.

We both look at a shrouded sky

wishing for sun.

The fallen leaf originates a kind of trust

before it dies.

Enough of them

produces a body of light.

I lean towards you

willing my warmth

to pink you up.

We light candles

between us.

A song bird flies overhead.

You point to the red roof of the house

two blocks away. So we talk about it;

as if we have always known that place,

as if we know the man walking

to the intersection,

as if it is a woman you know

who is coming to see you.

We become friends

and lovers

again.

You remember and smile

and touch the card with fondness.

Laughter

is a party inside us.

I forget I have to leave again,

and hope you will forgive me.

I promise to come visit the next day

and the next day and wonder if you will

remember what that means.

That I will need to leave you

and a part of me wants you to forget.

But then of course

the soul knows

and understands

and remembers

and always always loves.

One day a northern wolf heard the southern wolf's song.

So many stories later they stand here.

Two wolves testing the air.

Contently between time.

Presence is the whole of it.

They do not need to eat

or be warm.

They read the weather together.

There are no promises

between two souls.

Hunger and not hunger is the love between them.

She turns to go.

He begins to crumple a little inside.

Glaciers melt blue

on the fringes.

He turns and walks through the doorway.

As if one light turns off

and another on.

The northern wolf feels snow coming.

It runs with wind in its fur,

tirelessly easing into a lope,

face pointing towards home.

The southern wolf lies down

easing back into the place that holds him.

The poetry and flute of her words

warm and escaping.

~~~

for J.

12.4.2021