Dear Frank,
Today I climbed up the tree of my being
and sat in the high wind of an existential crisis. It was pretty tremendous,
and I almost came to the limits of neither earth nor abyss, before I climbed down again
to make dinner for Hannah and the boys.
I miss you.
I miss your irritating de Bevoirian sense of timeliness and the maddening way you counterpoint my assertions about the world with "As a matter of fact..." just so i'll take the bait and we can tussle for a bloody half-hour in bloody half-earnest.
When you are gone some part of, how shall I say it,
life's unencumberedness
is lost.
It's been pickpocketed. Tatterdemalion beauties stay in the shy corners,
and everything's just a bit stark.
Mother always told me
men tangle up the skein of reason,
but she never said the other part,
that you re-wind the tangles into reasonability.
Did i mention that I miss you,
or that
it is autumn
and the leaves on the tree of my being are flushed to crimson
and ochre and
(my favorite) babylonian gold? It doesn't much matter. I realize this is absurd, but
Come home.
They're predicting high winds for the next week.
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