Who is to say
I carry to the winds?
If I send you a letter,
the smell of the wood
in this new strange place
how do I know it will be fresh
when you tear the seal of its envelope?
Or worse yet it arrives
and you, breathless,
reach for it in the letterbox
only to find
the view from my window shredded,
the scent of my warm bed in tatters,
the texture of my four white walls
drizzled by the rain,
because the mailman’s hapless fingers
dropped the satchel containing
all my hopes and intentions
that fall on the wet pavement
by an accidental act of murder?
Or even worse than this,
that the exact color of my new world
never comes to you, my love,
in the abysmal pit
where messages of every intention go to die:
Dear Johns and bills, divorce papers, apologies too late,
forgotten photos and Valentines?
No, no! This is not the place
for my carefully sealed heart
that must brave the many thousand miles
before it reaches your safe and warm embrace.
Who is to say
what minor calamity may befall us,
when distance is more than distance,
when no number of words will resolve
what one kiss will melt in moments?
Who can know, my love,
what turn that little letter will take
as the enormity of reality
crushes its tiny folds?
My only comfort
(as I am wracked with worry
for that heroic little slip of paper)
is that you might know,
no matter how it comes,
whether whole or in tatters,
shriveled or rain-weary,
or perhaps not at all
that you knew my meaning,
my hopes and intentions
that tried to beat the worst of odds
to deliver one message,
small but vital to the beating heart:
my love, my love
is coming home to you.