It was a summer of letters,
you there, me here.
The days of thinking slowly,
rolling words around
until they landed just right.
The days of ink to vellum
and a blotter for splotches,
hand heavy with emotion
or tear drops of missing.
And sometimes our words crossed
like a wind shift, dropping seeds
too early to be devoured or take root.
That summer of letters,
so many years and memories ago,
carefully bundled with dried lavender
tucked away in the back closet shelf.
Photo Credit: Alex Drahon