Letter To Peter|
Go into the woods, Peter;
find the birch which bends with first snow,
see beauty before you cut her down
and drag her to the room of your father's tools.
Strip her well, Peter, though her skin is soft
like memory, her branches made of stone.
Carve the sides to a honeyed-brown
till yellow dust falls; rain upon your skin.
Breathe Peter, breathe before you chip away;
let her be wide, long enough for me to stretch,
lay myself inside. Build me a boat, Peter
with those hands of knots and lines, let her sail.
Know I've never been loved, not once, not at all.
Yesterday, I saw the ice slip to shore,
Bio: You may find more of Teresa's work in IBPC January 2002; The Butcher's Daughter, The Melic Review, Pierian Springs, The Poet's Canvas, Ella, Gumball Poetry, The Green Tricycle, Mentress Moon, The Writer's Hood and in several other ezines and print journals. She is currently at work on her first book of poetry which is due out the first of next year.