Postcard Ghazal

Sick in bed, I read your postcards and crave heated honey:
I have the kind of scratching cold you only treat with honey.

“When you come I’ll pack a lunch, carrots nestling next to apple slices
and your favorite hearty sandwich on slices of wheat and honey.”

I like to look at pictures of Greece, with its turquoise
roofs and water. My mouth waters at raw Cretan honey.

“Trekking ancient Edessa at sunrise, breath illuminated in the cold
like golden fleece, the waterfall appeared as sheets of honey.”

On the days when all I have is a crinkled fiver for gas pump one,
my eye always snags on round lollypops and small treats of honey.

“The moorland is alive with frogs calling out under stars. Here,
the land is full of riches: heather, plover, peat, and honey.”

I treasure each penstroke of “Dear Rook,” (though secretly I wish
you might change it to something sappy: “my sweet, my honey.”)