I open the pages

        ***
I open the pages,

I smell their crisp scent.

It seems it was ages,

Since words which you lent.

You wrote good and kind feelings,

Of sureness and strength.

You wrote one hundered kindlings,

Of enormous length.

I felt you right there with me,

All through the night.

As I went through the word and key,

I felt no more fright.

You’re there with me surely,

I feel it, I know.

You wrote it so purely,

There’s no where to snow.

You promise me safety,

And a meeting come soon.

It’s only that lately,

It is already June.

You haven’t come home yet,

You haven’t sent word.

I know I should not fret,

But no one else heard.

Your voice or your laughter,

Your stomping loud boots.

Perhaps it’s the dawn you’re after,

And freshly ripe fruit.

I cannot see clearly,

Yet maybe you can.

But I miss you most dearly,

Please come home before longer span.


       (Victoria)