Next Morning Letter
Because you wrote your name with thin brushstrokes
in ink along my arm, because my name
is written secretly on your bare skin
in careful letters, unread and unseen
by any other eyes, as I begin
my dawn walk home, I watch small branches frame
light shadow patterns and imagine their
cast characters describe your uncombed hair.
The blossoms of a weeping cherry twist
and trail along the ground, as if your hand
were trailing still, along your painted screen,
enticing me within: petals on sand
creating invitations as your wrist
in careful motion, gliding gracefully,
untied your sash and let red silk fall free.
And passing these new roses on the path
beside this stream, their outer edges white,
their open centers red, and in between
their coral petals blushing in dawn light,
I think of your entrancing aftermath,
your nearly sleeping form curving around
the cushions you had spread across the ground.
But as the sun rises above our ridge,
I lose these memories. The shadows grow
too stark and too hard-edged. Now the whole scene
loses its magic and my footsteps slow.
I wish I could return: recross the bridge,
retrieve the moment this letter evokes.
By W.F. LantryQLRS Vol. 11 No. 3 Jul 2012