March 3, 2016

My dearest,

She likes the wild grass outside her window. Long and chaotic, a complete mess: you tell me there are probably snakes, and you hate snakes. You are afraid of serpents lying amongst the blades, devil’s tongue slithering this way and that, cold eyes unblinking, waiting to strike. She sees the butterflies instead, dropping by this wildflower and then that one, drinking nectar with their thin, golden tongues. These are angel tongues, surely?

The weather grows warm. The heat is unbearable. Thunderclouds gather, and then storms. She has the wild grass cut, shorn short. The lawn now a fallow land, almost. You breathe easy, you are relieved. There are no snakes after all. No cold eyes, no devil’s tongue, no weapon ready to strike. Instead: the butterflies remain. They still fly from blade to blade, seeking flowers and nectar. Their golden tongues ever thirsty. These angels won’t leave you.

Yours, ever and always.