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1623 + 2 Miles Away

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I never thought I'd write back
to you, burning your letters and
daisies in my cackling fireplace.
I never thought I'd write back
to you, the adventures of your
short lived life like a candles wick,
wither away in my fireplace, as I write
my regrets outlined on this paper
in smudged graphite, margins soaked
with tears dripping from my eyes like
a faucet. Tomorrow, I'll let the wind
carry the ashes of you and your letters
into the seas of Europe, the mountains
of China, the volcanoes of Hawaii,
the marshes of Florida, the deserts of Africa.
You'll be able to see the ghosts fight
in the Colosseum, help keep the leaning
tower of Pisa from falling to it's broken
knee caps, tour inside the pyramid
of Giza, and lounge among the hanging
gardens of Babylon. Once again you can
sail the Pacific, search for gold in the Rio
Grande, and fall through the sky only this
time, without the aid of a parachute.
I'm sorry I never wrote you back,
when you were 1623 plus two miles away.



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