Sonnet for HF

I found the Dylan Thomas poem you mentioned

in your letter. I read each line aloud,

and when I reached your favorite part,

I wished that you were here.

But that is not to be.  You are, I am,

afar, apart, in ways precise, diverse.

I wrote the poem in long hand, as I said

I would, the words traveling from the page,

through my eyes, down my arms - muscle memories –

to fingers that held my favorite pen,

and onto the pages of my notebook –

and though I’ve never seen your face, nor touched

your smile, nor tasted the sound of your approach,

I hear your voice across the seas of time.