Transitions troubled him
Too many unfinished chapters
Half-bright, half-cloudy days
Puerile. Playing guessing games
Setting hours adrift as boats
Or bobbing back in from town
Along a forgotten dirt road
He braked the pickup truck
Letting dust settle, a ritual pause
Dull letterboxes lined up
Rusty. Yawning. Unexpectant.
Grimacing, he always searched
For her envelope. Plain white.
And Karra’s trademark wave
The insolent splash of indigo ink
That would set worlds aright
Nothing. Sifting flyers and bills
Tossing them on the empty seat
No sign of 18 Weatherstone Way
Framed in a silver gilt of tiny roses
Bees buzzing. He rolled up the window
Knowing. There were people who’d trade
Give anything. To have his life.
A novelist. With his cherished typewriter
Encirled by the boxwood grove. No cell phone.
Stubbornly plunking away. At life.
Searching for missing words
As if he could reinvent things
Like love. Or bring Karra back.
©2012 S. Michaels
Seven Love Stories – Andrew and Karra