A Prose Poem by Anon ymous
By now, you’re over the ocean; there’s the rustle
of pages being turned, the flicker of dim lights.
The scent of the moon has followed you, clings
to your skin. Before you close your eyes, I’ll
tell you this: there’s nothing the air cannot hold;
the soft crescendo of leaves in winter, the splash
of a fish in summer, a grass-stained knee; even
this letter folded in your pocket. I’ll find your
favorite tree. Take a twig, soft brown and brittle,
put it on the window ledge; wait for a bird to pick
it up, fly it to you.