Daughter, O daughter,
I write to you from across a distance
felt rather than intuited, a loss
that moves the blood; a shadow-heart
pumping darkness through my limbs.
Father, my father,
My guide and mentor scribes this note,
With gentle hands, he sees to all my needs.
‘Tis true, your feelings, I’ve been unwell —
light offends, and darkness is my shawl.
Daughter, dear daughter,
alas these tracks I lay in blood and muck
cannot bear your affliction to me, to take
upon these sunburnt shoulders.
I’ve sent monies for soothing creams,
that your skin will be renewed.
Father, dear father,
I fear it is too late, for my skin has turned
from light to darkest black, yet I am healed.
Alone, I welcome dawn to soar the skies,
I’ve found a glorious bounty in the day,
yet my mentor begs I wait until the night.
Darling child, daughter dear,
I fear the worst these later days, your letters
choked like frozen rivers; why withhold
your pen from me? I search for you in memory
but stumble on a stranger, her eyes
deep pits of frost-touched fire,
to consume while never burning brighter.
