The Last Letter
Without guide I race to her
Though my legs are old
In my hand this restless pen
Might I write before I’m cold
I hope my words will move her
To a place we never knew
Past ten cent stamps with yellowed backs
‘N jarred seeds that never grew.
Into fields of tender words
That brush upon her thought
I shall gather the gentle ones
For the flower I always sought
Copyright © Jerry Hackett | Year Posted 2019
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