Letter

In the silence dreams came
and brought to mind     your silhouette against the sky
and you    changed  into a bird    carrying hurt bigger than your own
       shadow
and this brought to mind       your cold, stained fingers,
those cut and folded wings placed in an envelope
and that brought to mind
how well we fought
to the bitter end.
Silence
in which you stand like a tree
putting out green, unfolding leaves,
bountiful; a lantern glimmering with blood-red fruit
 so much riper than
the sharp words that cut us short, hollowed us out.
In this emptiness
your knife is still sharp
it has gouged a pit in the passage of years
full of darkness.
Silence, in which we carried on,
making us act out bad dreams,
enfolding us in all those dark clouds,
proffering no handy little mirror for you to look in
and understand
that rain is brighter than anything your cloudshad to offer.