I found the scribbled letter by the door;
At first I thought a bill was left unpaid.
My hand brought close the paper to my brow,
And read the words you should have stayed to say.
What strength you have when hidden well by ink.
Bolting outside, I failed to see you off;
I would have given peace and mended warmth;
Or hurled that mantled vase with your remains.
Must I, from the letter, read those words now-loud;
Upon the day exact when you did drown;
I never got to properly retort,
For dead you’ve been at least for five years now.
It’s wondrous when the breeze picks up your scent,
If known these words were last, it can’t be meant.