His Letters

She knows it well: she’ll never look at his eyes. And yet it’s of little importance to her. She sends letters to him, and he still replies, Every message is like a fresh spring flower. Until now she’s collected many of them; She tied them in big, dried colorful bouquets At her old age she’ll reach for a fragrant stem To recall him and the great, breathtaking days. And when he doesn’t reply to her some day, It doesn’t matter - she won’t change her outlook. She’ll infuse a cup of tea; Green or Earl Grey, And press the blooms among pages of her life’s book…