|
| wait | |
| This day | |
| goes slowly, | |
| the sun, seemingly crawling | |
| hand over hand through the sky. | |
| In the windless silence | |
| dust settles still and | |
| unstirred on the ground; | |
| the forlorn mailbox, | |
| like a scarecrow, | |
| keeps watch | |
| on an empty road: | |
| still no mail... | |
| © Jon Bohrn (1999) | |
