To my dearest husband,
I hope this letter finds you well
And in good health.
Spring has come again
In my mother’s house and lands with my return.
Though if you could see it now,
You would think we were in
The quarries of your domain.
The freezing rains and hail that keep
New growth from blooming, remind me of
The roaring oceans and the taste of sea salt
That time you took me to see the oil rigs.
The ones your brother gifted you.
(Your smile then was as wide as the one you wore on our wedding day.)
We have to keep saplings on the heaters.
Mother had to take the wildflowers in her window-box inside.
We depend on the sun and heat for growth.
You do not, my love. You and your employees can work
In the bitter cold and blinding dark, flourish in it too.
(Please don’t work them too hard in my absence, my dear.
They too have spouses that love them and wait for their return.)
But these harsh few days will yield
To the golden sun and the blue sky’s glory.
Everything that died in my absence
Will come back to life
In my and my mother’s hands.
Yet as soon as we plant them,
The wheat, the grains, the roots, the tubers,
The crawling vines and the sprawling flowers,
A darkness in my heart will flourish
And demand for their quick and violent end.
Spring is wonderfully and deceptively kind
In our first few days apart.
But I’ve tired of song birds pecking at my window,
The blistering sun scratching and scrapping at my skin,
And the regal, practiced warmth and kindness of my mother and her kin.
My dear,
I wait for the days where your shy, cold hands
Will reach for mine, lead me home,
And chase away the loathsome heat
That clings to every surface of my being.
I long for the silent nights and mornings of the quarry,
Where no birds dare to fly and bother us,
So I can revel in your heavy breaths and sighs
That I mine with every tender kiss
On your pale skin.
I miss you.
Gods I miss you.
I miss your danger-seeking, ever-knowing smile
That can shame the rarest diamonds found in the cuff-links of your shirt
Or dull and rust the metals that make our rings.
I want to come home. If I was given the chance,
I would gladly let the world freeze over,
Leave the crops to whither on the vine,
And the people screaming in eternal frost,
Just to rule by your side all year round.
(My mother would call this crazy talk. What would you call it?)
