Unexpected Visitor

She comes, the news the equal of a
Hole appearing in the clouds, the
Sun upon the distant fields
Approaching, bringing back the warmth,
Which died when she was out of sight.
I'll fidget until she is here, and fret
That what was once cannot be resurrected.
We shall see. I'll tend my hopes. I'll clean
The house. The sunlight moves across
The fields, and I, anticipating heat,
Am certain that the news is good. She's
Promised she will come.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 60 times
Written on 2014-09-14 at 14:47

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