August 1945

And so the world was
soft orange when the letter arrived from Jed
on a day in late summer with only the wind around for companionship
flatness was out and wavey auroras of the spent day hovered on the horizon were in
side of the mind recalled how long it had been
since the last communiqué coming from over there, yonder where I yearned to go
what is left to tell of his scribbled ink
of the orange day when hearts were knitted, before the dawn of sorrow
when the world was unblemished by sun spots
never the same, shadows
growing, dispelling, dismissing the light— as before
for he will not be home
tomorrow
but three days hence,
before the post makes the rounds again
beyond the withered willow, down the road from Ms. Snow
Jed shall finally behold what he held so dear.