We reach out with letters
and pictures and notes.
Just a photo of the forest
can cheer me up by rote
but not one one-thousandth
as a real bubbling stream,
cooling to the foot soles,
better than a dream.

I can imagine the sand flats
where we used to dig for clams.
We’d walk until tomorrow
bumping hips and holding hands.
You are in the city alone
without any close-by friends.
I want to give you the hugs and kisses
my heart so wistfully sends.

So fly when the time is ready.
Don’t rush it.
Life’s worth more than our tears.
I’ll catch you in the autumn
not this spring but maybe next year.
We’ll meet in the Thousand Islands
or a tiny cottage here in the east.
It’s always best with you, my dear;
best at the very least.

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