On trying to reach the poet who had no phone or e-mail

When I tried to reach
the poet-farmer, I was told
that I must write a letter

in the old-fashioned way
for he had no phone, no email,
no computer, and only relied

on the post office which he
walked to and from every day
since it was just a mile or so

up the road from where he lived
in a tiny rural town tucked into
the eastern part of south central

but modern-day America—
And being from a small town myself,
a hill station in the northern outposts

of the Philippine cordillera, I felt
an immediate affinity for that kind
of natural isolation; so immediately

I took a pen and wrote what I had to say
—my letter of invitation, the inked
words drawn in neat lines

on a clear rectangle of paper,
today’s date, then the salutation
and the complimentary close

and then my name, my signature,
before I folded the paper once
and then once over, slid it

into an envelope, sealed it
then sent it off, hoping the gesture
would end in meaningful connection,

the way it might feel
to bear a little water cupped
in one’s hands to the sea.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Offering.

5 Comments


  1. (o)

    (Sometimes that’s a little picture of a stone, but this time it’s hands cupping water.)

    Reply

  2. Dale, I always thought it was an open mouth asking for water… or a mojito… or something… :)

    Reply

  3. Hmm. Sounds like Wendell Berry. (If so, we can go ahead and talk about him behind his back — he’ll never read this!)

    Reply

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