A Love Letter

I would like to write a love letter
to someone, a letter of love:
the seedling called “love” is rooted
deep in my heart.

The seedling is barbed and wild
and sown with an autumn wind.
No, my love is not a seedling:
it’s a newborn, naked and blind.

With blood and with life, the seedling
fights and fusses and cries:
its mouth searches pathetically
for a breast that is distant or dry.

Love is a hungry newborn:
it cries itself blue in the face.
Who has sown and birthed it?
Who gnaws and shreds my heart?

I would like to write a love letter
to someone, a letter of love.