image from findforgottenpostcards.wordpress.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It arrived thirty years late, the stamp still clinging like a last breath. The handwriting—your grandmother’s~ shaky, as if she wrote it in the dark. The weather is mild here, the streets quiet. You would hate it. No date, no return address, just the postmark bleeding into the paper’s edge. You hold it under the lamp, turning it over, half-expecting her voice to rise like steam from the ink. But the silence stays. And the words, now brittle as old leaves, whisper nothing but her absence.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
