He wrote a love letter to the utmost appeal 

Of our native winds.     A wind delivers mildly—

Faithfully. Yours,

Should be congratulatory words for works of your own

Once,      in a lifetime & in a cold

The appearance of a season

There’s no promising songs from our beautiful sky

It’s time for a scenic rule to be recorded

& I opened & I read.     & I read again,

In the head of the letter, there were no words of hope

The mark of a genesis beyond our sorrows

Underlined with red ink across,

& underneath.

Also, in the body of the letter.      Nothing holy to dream home

Today.     Now,

The mind of a winter gone crazy roaming about in wonder

But I hovered again.     & I read. This time— 

Unintentionally on the last words.  

& here, there were words of blasphemy

& so i collapsed.     My broken rib.

It’s only few moments until we stir a dirge as of mother’s

Words of a season, keenly expressed.     & halted with

Faithfully. Yours.

Now, there’s coal upon our white land

What if this was     but,

Our paternal inheritance? Our heritage won for us 

& stained with the violence of winter.

But in all—I want to see something, a thing—reading like,

Your own works should be accounted as faithfully yours

Image retrieved from freepik.com

(“When you reap what you sow, it’s accounted as faithfully yours” was first accepted for publication in the 2nd Issue of ARTmostterrific—Transit.)