Here, my dear, is the map
to my heart. I have put a big
red x in the center of the paper,
but it’s faded now to soft pink.
There are creases so old, so thin
that the names of the landmarks
can no longer be read. But here
is the old barn with the ladders
stacked against the metal roof.
And here’s the river bank
where many afternoons we stood.
And here the fields of columbine,
and here the song of canyon wren.
I’ll fold it and send it again to you,
though I fear in a week it will come
back to me, again, Return to Sender,
unopened, the seal and all
its kisses still intact.