Walking to the Mailbox After Rain

No one was driving in from the north
Or the south but the wind
As I walked the muddy drive,
Its dry skin almost stopping my sinking
On the way to get the mail.
Crossing the yellow highway line,
I noticed the bi-level cut of grass
Around the mailbox post—
Our neighbor’s gesture of kindness.
Anonymous financial mail
I would soon tear in half and discard
Tucked under my arm, I heard
The distant hum of a coming truck.
Time to re-cross. In the wide yard,
Young grasses waved in patches,
Thicker in the shadows of dying elms.
The odd ocotillo in the huge pot
Living lonely in the center of the yard
For who knows how long, stood
Taller than a man, with more arms.
And there, the cat litter bucket
I had just emptied in the dumpster,
Forgotten, rolled across the drive,
Tripped on the track of an early rivulet.
The propane tank, half full, crouched stout
As a legless, faceless, weathered hog.
Even though we may move soon,
You said we will fill it since it was full
When we first moved in, new with love.


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