Saturday, March 29, 2014

The day the letter came



While she stayed at home

Something was torn from her heart

His letters dried up


Weeks had long gone by

Now she felt winter’s cold grip

Her life was frozen


Rain fell in her heart

That cold fear of loneliness

Drowning all her hope


Sometimes letters come

When they don’t there is still hope 

But what if they do?



Her tears wet the page

Loneliness is a cruel friend

He would not come back

7 comments:

  1. I wonder if the prompt certainty of a text or email is any consolation for the long agonizing wait for a letter. At least while you wait, you can hope.

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  2. She must have guessed when he didn't email her.

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  3. At least letters can be kept and re-read until they either are or aren't needed any more..silence can force you to know things I guess..enchantingly written

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  4. Oh for the good old days of long letters and rushing to the mailbox everyday once the mailman had come! So much more civilized than e-mail, don't you think! Love your poetry!

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    1. However, I'd rather have an e-mail than no mail at all! The opening stanza of your poem, Old Egg, says it all: "His letters dried up." Sad, sad, sad.

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