Saturday, December 24, 2011

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. 


  1. deep! but why the dead bodies?

  2. Yes, it's intense. I loved the second stanza a lot - the whole of it. Read it a few times, and it's perfect!