We used to write letters on summer

dreams, inks with so dry but fill'd

with warm hugs, it wasn't the touch

of intimacy but seeking something

beyond the heart can take,

ran and broke into the woods.

Notes from every afternoon,

laid with a gentle touch,

now they're the reminder,

of dry hampshire county,

but I still watch the kids

to flip their coins into the well—

Who knows, if wishes come as fortune?

I can only listen and dare to look in waves.

In daylight, summer heat only can glare

But in spring, we were running on the

woods, with no trace of cellar walls:

walking on the beach, who knows

if heart was made of glass,

we could only pretend,

to hide the pieces.

Now, the footwall is vanished,

Our footage is blemished,

In the woods, they cut off

in a hope of growing,

another vines.

I dwell on the two roads, reminding of fuss

between black and blue, where nothing unfolds.

Now, memories grow out as two legs

they creep out in every wood,

with no trace of wishing cave,

I flipped the coin into the well.

— 24th June, 2024.