The letter comes from a far country
on an early April evening, when 
the moon is full
and stars run quietly.

The good earth, bored with the fecund 
promise of spring, works 
on the fetid 
memory of the lost.

I stand and watch, in the mute anticipation 
of the more theatrical, 
something of Homeric proportions;
nothing happens tonight, 
silence has sealed the wet lips of wandering poets.


Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash