*

*
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Letters

We found them
when we cleaned out your house
You had saved them
all these years
My letters
tied with a pink ribbon
kept in a shoebox
in your dresser
As I read through them
I saw my writing change
from big, round letters
to cursive
to hearts dotting the 'i's
to hurried adult scrawl
I met myself
as a child
a teen
and an adult again
Thank you
for giving me back a piece of
myself.

submitted (late again!) for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, FB Friday, Postmark: Poetry

5 comments:

Susan said...

Neat. I can imagine exactly that-- at my parents house at least three houses ago.

M. A. S. said...

This seems very subdued and controlled, which is perfect for this poem.

So that is why I keep all this stuff?

Pat Tillett said...

Hey there! Long time...
Nicely written. That would be quite an experience.

manicddaily said...

Very moving. One can imagine this exactly and your details about the handwriting are so very well chosen--also it sounds like you are speaking to someone who gave a large part of your original self. Well done. k.

ccchampagne said...

This really is so lovely and I hope to see some new writing from you soon (no pressure)!