It was past midnight,
On New Year’s Day,
On a charcoal-dark, cold winter night
When Linda received the mail of
Love.
The postman was late,
Delayed by all the glooms of winter.
Her lamp had run out of fuel —
Gone with the old year.
But even in the darkness,
With the energy of concealment
Afloat,
She had no need of her eyes.
She read with her heart,
For it raced and raced fondly towards the
Writer.

And though the winter was bitterly cold,
Thoughts of him kept her warm.