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The Letter


by Darryl Price




I'm writing you this letter displayed on a carved 
cherry flute. I'm sending it along through a poem's 
fully licensed cloud of incense; the only delivery system 
I can still hitch up for long distance pitching. 
I'm writing you a letter you'll probably never read. 
Never get. Never know exists. I'm not waking the 
sleeping cats out of any mad hatter like despair. 
That's not what this is being made real for. 
I'm writing you a letter because I had no 

idea how far we would be washed away from 
each other. Or, for how long. I have been 
looking for you on every laughing person's face. In 
every full orange moon's glowing singing voice. Every pilgrimage 
wind. Between the iron gates, looking at evergreen stars 
alone. I'm sure life has found you, as it's 
found me, and forced its long march on your 
tired feet. But, this letter is not about bitter 
things. So, now I want you to know I 

carried our love forward with me? I swallowed it 
down whole, rather than give it up to any 
tortured and battered painful memory thorns. Hiding it just 
within reach. I wanted the opportunity to show you 
I still have it within me-- but as I've 
become this, it's become more and more like something 
rising and silvery, slipping out of my soul's open
mouth to join with all the other lights in 
the holy night sky. Still, these words are not 

the words I want to say. These ones are 
only ghost dragonflies, grains of ghostly sand. I shall 
accept this emptiness, without blame. They were only meant 
to be seeds to a travelling wonder only you 
could ever behold. Instead they are yellow, curling petals 
in the thoughts of the wild wind's mind. I 
no longer can gather them into something profound just 
for you. Those days are gone. If you'll forgive 
me, that way has become a death trap for 

me. And I'm very much deep inside of the 
buried lamps by now. I'm writing you a letter 
because I miss you. I miss your sad sweet 
smile full of small songs. I miss the sacred 
ground beneath our favorite trees. Words are useless as 
beggar's marbles. I'm writing you a letter should you 
ever need one. It means one simple thing: it's 
all mystery. Most of it. From top to bottom. 
My love's where I'm calling you out from today. 

Writing you a letter because you deserve one that 
hasn't been kicked in the nether regions. Although I'm 
running out of foolish steam inside. I guess there's
always that grinning three word thing keeping us saving 
ourselves for a rainy day. Don't care. I'm writing 
you. The tide's coming back. Thanks for the inspirations. 
Hope I gave friendship good as I got, hope 
I kept you from the stranger's ledge, once or 
twice, when you really needed it. We'll meet again. 
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