Worn Mail

A Poem by Giorgio Veneto

An Iambic tetrameter poem with ABBA rhyme scheme, about a soldier and a letter he received once.

Her image fled among the trees,
strange was this time cause fates have stepped,
in their dreams of icons inept,
of dead soldiers, friendly trustees.

Ordered to serve by conscription
and in the camps for many years,
the ascertainment was that war's fears
could not reach his soul's proscription.

The coffee'n cup on mountain's glen,
in plain darkness of midwinter,
his fingers warmed - tasted bitter,
the M16 A4's his friend.

He stayed with it for two decades,
cannot describe how time was lost,
cannot recall himself of ghost,
that fled to slopes and pure cascades.

But he recalls that March first morn,
she sent a note, with drawn clovers,
close to the grind of tanks' dozers,
- her words and tears on paper worn.

He never knew to phrase answers,
and also thought that she wouldn't wait;
an empty-strange quantum of fate,
star-dome invites the shot dancers.

On nearby stream her worn mail goes,
a paper boat that trails afar,
his stare followed - he was shot hard,
upon the snow two qubits froze.

© G. V. 01.27.2013 All rights reserved