Late Winter Letter To An Old Friend
The days are much the same now.
Deep cold. Howling wind.
Dark trees. White fields of snow.
The fire must be fed, kindling split.
What were you like when you were young?
What kind of face did you have then?
A lonely one perhaps,
Or a split face,
One side for God, the other for the human beings.
The dog’s face is drawn now.
Sometimes his eyes fill with pain.
He’s deaf; his corneas shiny with cataracts.
Yesterday I shoveled snow.
Tomorrow I’ll have to shovel again.
This morning I tried to write a poem. Useless.
My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth.
My head stuffed with straw.
I thought of you then,
And wondered how you were doing.
Perhaps you could drop me a line.
Send me a note full of your usual nonsense,
And I will be in your debt forever.