July 1, 2012

Letter from the front:

Dear Beloved,
I write to you from a wet town, a river town, an overgrown marsh, a fertile valley. I write to you with a distracted mind, a guilt and a pleasure. I write to you, friend and lover, to admit. But also to delay.
Where have I been, I’m sure you have wondered. By now you know to take my absence as a sign of work being done, not of disrespect. I have something to show you. Something new and beautiful and dear. But not yet… not for a bit. Not until it is what it aspires to be.
Not until I am.

Until that time,



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