Letter to Myself, February, 1995
Mark, on this sunny day, snow sparkling
everywhere, I think of you once more-
how many years ago? A child
trapped in that frozen house alone, you've
become bitter, hate-filled, a cynical
man. Haunted merely by memories of a
Love denied. But I also remember
when you, with a sharp acid taste in
your mouth, fell onto that snow and
gorged yourself, somehow to purge it,
somehow to begin anew. Since then, each
winter, you've been reminded and cried
for days. And each winter I can see you spread-eagled
on the ice of that storm, face buried in that filth.
I am writing to you now, though you may never answer,
because I must: keeping the pain is far worse.
Yours in hopes of peace for your soul
before the coming of another snow.