In search of the letter

I will distill my senses 

melt it in the early winter snow 

and cast it in iron mould of memory 

to carve a little needle to stitch small 

threads of hope for the eternal summer 

winter owes me time for hibernation, 

fogging the only street I knew 

rolling the mist over the only window 

with a view, turning icicles to the only 

breath I could touch, suspending to dreams 

the only memories I had 

Spring will yet melt this winter 

sending letters in green envelopes 

to addresses unknown and yet I without a name, 

an exile of summer, would keep turning over 

the dead bodies, searching the coats for 

a letter to deliver my name.