Your Letter by Terry O’Shaughnessy

Here is what I required:

your letter.

 

Its envelope,

its stamp

its claret ink of perfect salutation.

 

It arrives.

 

On good thick paper

you ask:

 

“Remember those leaves

that fell in November,

after tea that day

in the Rue des Saints Pères?

Were they the colour of yolk?

Or flame?”

 

 No.

 

I finally write it.

 

No.

 

“It was the imperial yellow

of dragon silk”

 

and I worry at the miles

that will separate us,

more each year.

 

 

 

One thought on “Your Letter by Terry O’Shaughnessy

  1. Danielle Carole Tremblay says:

    Love your poem. Love at a distance can bring distance from love. I feel your worry.

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