Woman Writing Letter by Henry O'Hara Clive (1881 - 1960)
Dearest Rose,
For
the first time I understand why men mortgage their souls for a diamond the size
of a skipping stone. I understand why
dragonflies mate on the wind, their abdomens a perfect flying heart. I know the thrill of the match as it lights
the fire---and the fire’s joy as it consumes all it touches. I even know the ashes’ ache as it smears your
fingertips and touches your face as you wipe away your tears.
For
the first time I feel.
I am
the needle on the Victrola and you, the record.
Together, we become music.
Rose,
you are the elusive drop of joy wrung from the heart of the Poppy making my
brain a dream collage.
My
heart becomes heavy. I know this can’t
last. I weep as you shake your head
smiling and capture my tears in a tiny cobalt blue bottle. You say you will use them to season your
stuffed zucchini blossoms and feed them back to me to negate my sorrow.
Rose,
you are a love alchemist.
Heal
me.
Yours,
Lilly
By Marion: 9/25/2012
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