Letters to Her

There's now a pile of letters I couldn't send,

They're stacked by the window ledge, my long-lost friend,

Each one a piece of my heart,

a whisper to the unknown,

In words unspoken,

tales untold,

where a mother's love has grown.

The ink upon the pages,

a river of my dreams,

Of hopes and fears,

and tender schemes,

beneath the moon's soft beams,

But something kept us apart,

a fate,

a twist of time,

So these letters sat,

day by day,

in silence,

in their prime.

I often thought of reaching out,

to find you and to hold,

To embrace the story left untold,

a bond that's pure as gold,

But life had its own plans,

it carried me away,

And yet,

that pile of letters by the window seemed to say:

“Though we've never met, my dearest child, I'm always here with you,

In every whisper of the breeze, in the morning's glistening dew,

For in the quiet of this room, we'll always find a home,

In the dreams and hopes, where a mother's love will always roam.”

So, those unsent letters,

a testament to time,

A reminder of a love,

that's still in its prime,

As the days turn into years,

and life's story carries on,

They remain a secret tale of love,

a bond forever strong