You know letter writing requires a kind
of hibernation (the months I was silent).
The heart winters through it on minimum
nourishment. It lives by barely beating.
Then, mysterious as spring, the heart
takes a pen, breaks through the cocoon,
spins matter out of itself, develops feet
to crawl onto dry land, grows feathers.
I imagine you reading this in bed, your
cat curled against you, eyes opened,
wild to shred this fluttering thing
and eat, as one does after a long winter.