Just when I thought the day had nothing left to give—
when I thought I could write a poem opening with sadness,
loss of hope, lack of hope, despair, emptiness,
or maybe simple ennui
(though no simple prospect, that)—
I found I couldn’t capture that darkness,
couldn’t plumb that depth,
had to stand on the summit of joy and cry out happiness.

Today has brought gifts I didn’t imagine:
an early start on full night’s rest,
flowers on the table,
a letter from the grave from a long-lost friend.

This ghost of the past lives ever in the present of my heart
but cannot be seen,
heard or felt,
save in dreams and photographs.

Thirty years ago she wrote me a letter
that arrived today,
a miracle
bearing both the minutiae of daily life and marvel of pregnancy.

Delivered to me by the daughter she carried then in her womb,
product of the very pregnancy she celebrated,
this labor of love gestated 30 years
before taking its first breath long after its mother breathed her last.

A letter conceived by a friendship that transcended time and distance—
that could wrinkle a ten-year separation to feel like ten days,
fold absence away in a trick of temporal origami—
brought my long-absent friend once again to my doorstep.

This happened so many times during life.
We would drop back into each other’s lives after years apart,
only to pick up our conversation where it last ended,
hardly noticing the passage of time.

How this can continue even now is a mystery
I don’t need to solve,
but am content to embrace and cherish,
as I always have my friend.