“Meet me when evening touches nightfall
where hummingbirds fly over smoke
swallowed chimneys, grey and tall.”
“Fly over these green hills (will you please?)
with flowers growing by the street
and misty forests of Oak and Teak.”
When I don’t hear from you for a week,
a dozen mundane things I’ll seek,
so days without you won’t seem so bleak.
Your postcard written in blue ink,
is a view of a shrinking sky,
light fading as the day goes by.
I imagine windy fields of rye,
and you standing at our old porch
with a stubble and your crooked grey tie.
I watch rain pour from clouds of grey.
You write a postcard from a city far away,where Sugar Ray fills the room of a sidewalk café.