I’ll send you postcards for you
to frame. You’ll send me snap
shots in return of flowers and
plants, telling me how swallows
come with horses. I’ll send you
a postcard of my mother’s
garden, close-ups of shamrock
growing in the crevices, eared
doves nesting on naked trees.
I’ll sign it with words that appear
as aeroplanes on the page, long
and airy and oh so loud. You’ll hear
me through the envelope when
it reaches you in the winter and
you’ll send me snippets of our
vegetable patch. Pressed-up lettuce
leaves, strawberry blossoms. I’ll make you
a postcard out of sand and pebbles, out of
the idea of a letter composed from soil
and washed-out footprints,
the shapes of our feet on the ground.
I’ll post the grains in intervals of five,
one for each sound in your name.
You’ll send me a threshold to walk
through, made of timber and paper,
scented with the traces of hand-made soap
on your fingers. I’ll send you a thousand
blank cards for you to inscribe with the
names of the birds passing you by.
