As the wind cries out a lonely prayer,
a candles feeble flame, her only light.
Wrapped in a shawl of tattered wool,
she rereads his letter, with closed eyes.
She knows each word, letter and nuance.
How the third line makes her smile.
And further through, a tear is shed,
where he writes he can hear her voice.
She feels the folds of countless reads
and the aging of weightless hope.
He may never be coming home,
but he is there, to forever read.