Kele Goodwin Follow

I wrote you a letter filled with feathers and rain
Returned to sender by way of aeroplane
It arrived on my doorstep, a fallen bird from the sky
Lost in the snowstorm, returning home to die

I wrote in cursive to you
The ink was made from a winter's afternoon
And I wrote with the pen you gave to me
On paper made from the leaves of our favorite tree

I held it in my hands, heavier than before
Light when I sent it, now the weight of a closed door
All the time I had to say the things I meant
Pages are the writing path, the letter's unsent

I wrote in cursive to you
The ink was made from a winter's afternoon
And I wrote with the pen you gave to me
On paper made from the leaves of our favorite tree