Gerry Jacobson

Love Letters

sun squints
through cloud. . .
my writing hand's pale shadow

I find them in the shed, in a rusty tin box. Tied by a tattered ribbon, they smell mouldy and are full of silverfish. I glance at some of them. It’s curious how we addressed each other. “Dear Wife…” I wrote at the time; but the letters were written a couple of years before we actually married. Strange that we were so sure of each other; I don’t remember feeling that. What I do remember is feeling uncertainty until well into our marriage.  Even up until yesterday, if the truth be known.

pas de deux. . .
space pulsates
between the dancers

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About the Author

Gerry Jacobson lives in Canberra, Australia, and can be found writing tanka in its cafés.  He was a geologist in a past life and now celebrates reincarnation as a dancer.