Letters

You, whom I have not seen
in years: I used to think we could mend 

the sky by sewing dreams; by folding
them like letters which then 

could be tied to the legs of carrier
pigeons. Then, I imagined we'd watch

for some kind of sign: the last
magnolia of the season, a feather

found in the grass bearing
no other clue of its provenance. 

In the early hours, I imagine
beaded waterdrops strung

from one loneliness to another;
how they pool down shining

along a copper rain chain, how they
make a sound no ghost has ever made.