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
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.
ReplyDeleteShe must have guessed when he didn't email her.
ReplyDeleteAt 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
ReplyDeleteI wonder what she did wrong!
ReplyDeleteOh 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!
ReplyDeleteHowever, 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.
DeleteOh, so so sad!!!!
ReplyDelete