Dearest love, he began: a haiku (and a prose)

a letter from up

Dearest love, he began,

seeing her at other land,

write to me, she said. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~When he travels he likes to write down what he sees, hears and thinks. A picture in his selective perceptive mind often helps him to recall the moment of encounter with colors, sounds, and lives that co-exist: a pleasant surprise, a happy feeling, a tinge of sadness, a glimpse of greatness beyond his comprehension, an act of courage, a light that stands out on the face of someone, eyes that speak kindness, a smile that spells hope, a bowl of hot soup that warms his soul, a word of friendliness like “Good morning” from another jogger, a mother pushing a pram, an old man walking his dog, yes, the general non-hostility of the expressions from nature, creatures, and even human. So he writes.

“A letter makes ordinary things seem important.”
― Marilynne Robinson, Lila

“More than kisses, letters mingle souls.”
― John Donne

“You deserve a longer letter than this; but it is my unhappy fate seldom to treat people so well as they deserve.”
― Jane Austen

“Only write to me, write to me, I love to see the hop and skip and sudden starts of your ink.”
― A.S. Byatt, Possession

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