Letter from the front:

Dear Beloved, I write to you from a wet town, a river town, an overgrown marsh, a fertile valley. I write to you with a distracted mind, a guilt and a pleasure. I write to you, friend and lover, to admit. But also to delay. Where have I been, I'm sure you have wondered. By now you know to take my absence as a sign of work being done, not of disrespect. I have something to show you. Something new and beautiful and dear. But not yet... not for a bit. Not until it is what it aspires to be. Not until I am.

Until that time,