Dear John

Dear John letter But it’s not. His name happens to be John. Rather a letter of a hopeful heart anticipating the future Have I finally found the one man who will be my intimate other? He who will, at the end, sit by a fire with me, sipping tea, our blankets tucked around our tired old knees? Chortling together about days gone by, how we met, the walks, the talks, the quiet moments without words. The day I pushed you into the fish pond, the smell of crushed summer grasses under us mingling with our scent of passion. Will I? Could I? Be your one to the end? Will it hurt very much if you are only a seven year itch…or a seven month or seven day man? Oh, I hope you are a 70 year man! I love your sternness seen so seldom but still there. I fear your irrevocable nature, when you are done with a thing or person you are done! What wall? What ice house? You mean these few old bricks scattered about on the ground that John Prine writes about? ‘My heart's in the ice house come hill or come valley Like a long ago Sunday when I walked through the alley….’ Once you said I had rescued your heart from the ice house, I asked, what do you mean? I lived to know how cold your heart could be. I love you, I tremble for the moment I will know you…my toes are singing, You are my heart, I am yours always... www.writeratplay.com