Better to write for yourself and have no public,
than to write for the public and have no self.

by Cyril Connolly

I

Tuco missed Arlu.
Wrote letters to her,
even though he didn't know
where she was,
when she'd show up.

Actually,
if she'd show up.

But he wrote her and filed
the notes away.
Sometimes burned them,
in a camp fire,
letting the ash lift the words
into the air and light
that he hoped

she still loved.

II

Tuco misses Arlu.
Yet life is here
not absent with her.

He ponders that.
Lifts his life into daylight
hoping the rising sun
warms him
as it warms leaves
so flowers are born
into wondrous light.

Into this wondrous light
that waxes and wanes

on and on.