I keep writing you letters
and I keep talking to you.
We hardly ever talked...
We just hid from each other our pain
and avoided each other's tears.

How you loved your poplars and birches
a plowed field, the proud rising rye...
Will you let me slip into my letters
the tremor of leaves,
the warm smell of bread,
or, in the palm of your hand,
the small yellow sun?
You'd be happy with only that.

.................................... ..........

When the wind knocks at my blue window pane,
When silence grows like a lump in my throat,
I will write you letters.
You can read them
from your distance
with the eyes of the stars
or the glass fingers of
silvery rain.