As I lay here, between a book of Fitzgerald
and the rolling Spring River,
I could hardly conjure an image from my novel
on account of this oppressive beauty.
I pictured you, trapped up there in winter,
and how your presence would make poetry
of this scene's bewitching prose.
So then I tried a sonnet
to capture it.
The lens on my Muse is broken,
and this letter is evidence of my open wound.
I'm certain, however, that these things,
reflected in your eyes
and measured with your voice,
would make them rhyme again.