They say that women change.
'Tis so,
but you are ever-constant in your changefulness.
Like that still thread of a falling river,
one from source to last embrace in the still pool.
Ever-anewed and ever-moving on.
From first to last,
a myriad water drops.
And you--I love you for it--
are the force that moves and holds the form.

You cut me, madame.
I'm sorry. I only meant to scratch.

I shall hope aganist hope that this note is the dove...
which will return with the wished-for olive branch.
My letters are like Noah's ravens--they have sped out across the Thames and yet have not returned.

Dear Madame:
Since our pleasant conversation, I have thought of little else.
I write with a strong sense of the necessity...
of continuing our talk.

I shan't forget the first glimpse of your form...
illuminated as it was by flashes of sunlight.
I have dreamt nightly of your face.
To walk to the landscape of my life with the rythms of your writing...
ringing in my ears.

I shall never forget our shining progress...
towards one another.
Never have I felt such a concentration of my entire being.
I cannot let you burn me up,
nor can I resist you.
No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.

Last updated: June 20, 2012

Jennifer Ehle
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