I have written so many in my life, so many florid,
horrid outpourings of feeling to all the wrong suitors.
If even one of the those wrong hearts kept even one
foolish, earnest page, may the paper now ignite
and harmlessly, blamelessly crumble
into wordless ash in whatever drawer it lays,
because this is the true letter, the one that has taken
years to write, rising as it does from long marriage,
rising from its sleep the way you do at night
when the children call, or when I have left the door
open to the knocking wind, or when morning comes
and I find you already in the kitchen, washing
the dishes from the night before,
washing us clean as you whistle and sing.
There is only one page to this letter
as there is only one you, as there is only
one night sky faithfully unrolling above us
so that the moon, the one moon, can be seen
and be thanked, so that across the darkness
we can see what is whole and good, the endurance of light.