Yes, he told me,
the postman did,
about the rain
and getting wet
and the letters kept dry
in a big, grey mailbag
and I offered him
some soup,
a biscuit saved
at breakfast
and my early morning
paper;
not much, mind you,
a token gesture
of gratitude
for the time,
also when it poured,
he’d brought me
your final letter,
one not lucky enough
to make it unscathed
from the onslaught of clouds
or was it
my tears on hand on envelope
in sensing a dry goodbye?
Andreas Gripp
RF Image