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) |