I'm writing you this letter today with loose leaf on a clip board and a pencil.
I've been wandering around Niagara Falls, watching the mist rising to meet the precipice of the escarpment.
There are thousands of birds, some I've known and many whose names I can't say, and I wish you were here.
When I walk above the swirling waters and hear the thundering tumult in my ears I feel drawn into it
It calls out from that last moment, the space between the stone and the surface where the edge shows through,
ever replenished, ever replaced, to the bottom and into the undertow.
I'm set adrift, an umbrella turned upside down, caught in the eddy current and cycling and circling.
Its handle holding my hand.
I'm standing on the shoulders of a giant and all this water is held up by some fabric over a thin metal frame.
I've been walking around thinking about you and your time here,
about the inspiration for a shape poem that's traveled so far and so well.
The water falling like hair.
The bridge like a cord spanning a great distance.
It all comes back and the wish is that I had someone to share all of this with,
someone who could have shared the journey.
I sat and had lunch in The Secret Garden.
On the way out the door I noticed on the last table a book, The Book of Answers.
I don't know if you remember it from before.
It asks you to hold it in your hands,
to think on your question for a few moments and then just open it up to a page.
You must know the question I asked.
When I flicked to a spot on the first try it said only two words:
I closed it again and walked out, thinking, 'I can't,'
and how all this day you've filled my thoughts
like the light rain now falling on this page would fill that umbrella to the brim
and my heart beating like mad and I think, 'Yes... yes I would,'
I feel lifted by the elements around and the wisdom they speak,
for we love what we love, not only what loves us back.