The Letter

My father, who can't remember
what he had for lunch
or if he's eaten anything at all,
tells me that once,
trying to win my mother's heart,
he had made a letter
out of flower petals
and sent it to her in the mail.
He must have been nineteen.
And I imagine him, unfastening
the daisies from their orbs,
undoing blue-bells and
reorganizing astors.

My mother remembers then too.
Remembering makes her face go soft
and shine right on him
in a way I have not seen
in years.
And I can see her, opening
the envelope that day,
the same look softening her face
as if a breeze had crossed it.
Somewhere, out of sight,
a gate swings open.

-- Deb Cooper

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
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