I like to think that first pen or stylus in Mesopotamia
was used to send something sweet to a lover far away.
A clay tablet left upon the doorstep of a restless woman
awaiting his return. Or, perhaps a dream inscribed on papyrus
about the songs she’d whisper when he arrives, tucked
into his belt – not less important than his sword,
closer to his heart than his shield.
I hope the realization of a need for transcription arose
from a knowledge that flowers would not last
the journey home. A thistle, wilted in the hands
of a kilted warlord, reduced mostly to nothing
once he reached his fair maiden.
Words can’t wilt, however, and, while mysterious
to the unintended reader, can hold so much more
for those addressed. They mark the voice of a distant
love, the mannerisms and inflection of speech
upon lips easily imagined. Or, at least I like to think