Sent My Mail


The cold
rakes against my decision,
flattening the process,
making mail of me
to slip under your doorway;
What have I found
that can’t be enveloped,
sent packing – am I to be shipped?

Finding heat, locating the stamp,
peeling underneath
like holiday flesh.
Rejuvenated by tendencies ,
seasons to stick together,
rarely making changes.
Postage location: delivered.

Expanding magic childhood toy,
emerging from papered jail,
give me rain, not too cold,
and I will grow in Tennessee. 


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