A Postman Speaks in Late July
Howling his hatred of my postman-scent,
the bloodhound sun
has yelped at my heels all day.
I lose him now on Linnet Street
where sidewalks end (the residents are
rustically inclined against concrete).
I walk the tideless waves of grass,
surf-cool, shoe-deep,
whose shores are porch and traffic's edge.
Ascending wooden hills of steps,
I feed two mail slots their assorted rations.
Last house on Linnet Street.
This is a door my inner eye sees heavy-grained
with welcome. I make intentional thunder
with my feet ?
the doorknob should have come alive by now.
I like her "Thank you" for the mail
uttered as if an envelope were thin-sliced gold.
A lenient window lets me see the armchair,
nudging sill,
and the gaunt shine of her - an old Athena
etherized by sleep (third time this week).
The hands that wage her smallish wars -
with crochet hook and pruning shears -
practice retreat upon her lap; lie easy,
open-fingered,
as if the maps of purpose were released,
as if it is not hard to learn
the skill of letting go.
~June E. Foye