Afar

.

.

I speak to you by candlelight
with quill and well of ink,
I slowly dip its feathered point,
finding the images I seek.

A fire crackles slowly
from a stone and earthen hearth,
while a cherry-inlaid letterbox
holds my tools for simple thought.

Parchment, stiff and yellowed,
is unrolled, I weigh it down,
across a wooden writing desk,
with a creek stone that I found.

Words can sound so painful
where pen and parchment meet,
resonating through the night
until my work’s complete.

Then folding, ever gently,
after taking time to dry,
I close with wax and seal,
to discourage prying eyes.

I send to you by horseback,
a month or two removed,
You’ll break the seal to read within,
my pledge of love to you.

Words won’t lose their meaning
whether written from afar,
for the parchment’s just a vessel,
the ink comes from the heart.