The Comet

 

THE COMET

 

Moonlight, daffodils, a weeping willow,

and in the northern sky a comet

with a ghostly tail.  The letter

was my last hope, and time

was running out for a reply.  Soon

the comet would be gone, my heart

with it.

 

Every night the mail tray,

checking and rechecking then stuffing

it all back, the comet a little lower,

a little brighter.  Daffodils and dreams,

your voice and your tender smile.

 

Another full moon,

a spray of white blossom,

my footsteps hollow on the broken path.

 

Paul Beech

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 1997

(Previously published on the author’s own blog, Grandy’s Landing.)

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