The Letters


The days of enjoying your letters is about over for me.
Your written words keep me always wondering whether you will return.
Will I just wake up one day into an ugly despair that shouts the truth at me?
I have put on my best today. It’s not much, but no one near me can do anything finer.
The city girls have more make-up and someone to unwrinkle their outer robes.
I save that energy to keep myself free of bottled-up strife,
as I wait for your return.
Some of my closest friends tell me I am so foolish to expect anything more
from you than this fascinating scrawl of ink.
I’ve shown them what I have received,
and added into your letters my own blurring effect of abandoned tears.
You want to know how they respond?
It is terrible, their mocking laugh; their petty, bruising display of hilarity.
I am too much a child of this rural nature to know your intentions.
I have not enough education, not enough civilization,
to turn over my understanding to a crowd who cannot see as I do.
Please respond right away and let me know what we must do.
Or, at least, what I must do.

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