I wrote you a letter filled with feathers and rain Returned to sender by way of aeroplane It arrived on my doorstep, a fallen bird from the sky Lost in the snowstorm, returning home to die I wrote in cursive to you The ink was made from a winter's afternoon And I wrote with the pen you gave to me On paper made from the leaves of our favorite tree I held it in my hands, heavier than before Light when I sent it, now the weight of a closed door All the time I had to say the things I meant Pages are the writing path, the letter's unsent I wrote in cursive to you The ink was made from a winter's afternoon And I wrote with the pen you gave to me On paper made from the leaves of our favorite tree