Letters of Straw

Write your notes
of warm affection
here where the farmer's
scythe has scalped the
wheat and left hard
stalks weathering
on a plain where the
wind once blew the
grain in mellow ripples.
The harvest has drained
the sea of nimble grass
and left behind this
rough canvas
which is fitting for
your letters. Pick
up your pen and begin:
"Dear, dear",
as the remnants of
a plentiful crop
bring blood to
your hands. I
know it hurts
to write them,
your words,
forming among the
tiny drips of
red on the field.
But see, it hurts
more to read them.
I run my hands over
the bends and loops
of the alphabet
and I prick my fingers
and the feeling is
like that of biting
the inside of your cheek,
painfully sweet,
something you do
over and over.
Thorns among the crops,
your intentions cut
open my skin and
reveal what you
meant all along.