letter 51

eden is that old-fashioned house

we dwell in every day

without suspecting our abode

until we drive away


how fair, on looking back, the day

we sauntered from the door

unconscious our returning

discover it no more


*emily dickinson

letter 50

nigh on winter

you hold my hand tight

and life took place again

if you could know how many shadows

will remain amongst us

in the very moment of your dreams