Love Letters

Trace the shape of a heart
absently on the edge of a page
and you will know
the inheritance of my losses—
the secret places in a drawer
discovered by the dead
who dream of the stage
where life was sweet
and the silver screen magic
is strangely spoken
in French.

My pen traces
the letters of the words
I can not say
but that go on forever
in the landscape of forgiveness—
in the house of the mind
that is now the only dwelling
in the kingdom of ordinary time.

What story will I tell
in this Book of Names—
this chronicle of wanting more
when everything else
falls away?

I can’t help but compose
a small love song,
forming the round droplets of notes,
waiting at the edges of my lashes—
waiting for the sure light
of morning to find the paper
and the courage to leave my mark.