Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Love Letters

Her love letters
stay unopened
until you find a poetry
to translate their words.

She writes in green sap
in first light
in the dark blood of passion.
She engraves Her flowers
over moonlight
where hands melt to touch Her.

I write.
Words come flying in
like crows
some are crippled by the light.
Some are hobbled
by a grappling darkness
but they come.

I return Her letters
in bundles of self.
I scratch out a poem
and while it is still bleeding

offer it to Her lips.

Painting: The Unopened Letter. (c) James C. Christensen