unopened

the letter sits on my writing table
postmarked by hands i’ll never meet
a town whose name i cannot pronounce
written in a language i’ll never learn.
it speaks, i’m sure, of family and
health, love and loss, the price of corn,
how the rain from the west, rolling over
the hills, brings both plentiful harvest
and melancholy musings, about a neighbor,
whose cows too wild with roaming, have
upset the flowers in the little garden
in front of the concrete house, how the
youngest son has finished school at last
and will be soon off to a job in the capital,
how the eldest daughter’s husband has a
displeasing look, but money enough to keep her.
and i’ve known that cow, and those rain clouds,
that garden, the husband with the mean look,
they are imprinted on the envelope instead of words.

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About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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