TEXTURE Original handwritten Italian letter on genuine aged paper-1778

Envelopes in boxes, another day of rain. Lead me
to the place where there is a door called Home, something
like a cure for words that rise like giant shadows
when the heart is alone.

It’s been years since I read any letters,
since pages, yellowing, trembled in the folds
of my hands. So many are gone now, either
by breath or estrangement

I keep them like someone who does not
toss the flowers from the vase until the last
blue petal falls, till the fragrance becomes
musty.

I don’t want to forget the fires, the lost
forevers, the shadows where dreams filtered
into dust. But yet I do want to forget more
often these days. Offer food to birds that

fly away and leave no gift except the
echo of their song. Maybe that is why this
box is mostly closed, like so many layers of
time. Hurry up. Open the door.

~Heather Lenz

Poet, writer, artist, publisher, editor