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Mon 1 Mar, 2004 08:45 pm
They smell of dew and sand and salt,
Pungent, but in timely lace is wrought
The sounds of blue,
But feel the abrasive
hue of gentle touch,
Too much?
No, never such.
Nor ever too often.
Buried in a coffin
Of secret places
Locked securely
In that heart of gold
whose monogram
I trace with fingers cold.
Dear Letty
I don't know what... or how to say,
but words are the only way.
I am trying to trace the painful steps you are taking,
in prayerful thought;
tho it is unwieldy pacing and lots of steps behind.
I am trying to say, your pain matters to me.
and, as always, theo. You said it quite well. Thank you, my friend.
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