An Explanation to a Friend for Not Writing

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.

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