The letter comes from a far countryon an early April evening, whenthe moon is fulland stars run quietly.
The good earth, bored with the fecundpromise of spring, workson the fetidmemory of the lost.
I stand and watch, in the mute anticipationof 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