Patricia Wallace Jones
Morning Letter
I knew I would miss you
when at dawn the heron flew low
and fast upcreek, up and over cypress
to his inland haunt.
My stream runs too swift
for his taste, out of its banks
after weeks of rain.
And it is raining still, building
and building to three-flag gale.
I watch from a distance--
heed all warnings--
but wonder too
what words you'd use
to describe the rogue waves,
hills and gullies of spring tide surf,
the silver in my wind-whipped hair.
