Postbox

On the road
with a crumbly note.
Thoughts on a hill,
that returned the summer in you.
Sunshine rays,
on a dusty yard;
hours' worth of dreams succumbed.

Finding a gap in a rusted green box.
My life in a minute's word
of hopeful suffer.
A squirrel stumbled, trees spiraled, the flowers quarreled.

Like melted chocolate in an oven platter,
the message finally, but foolishly, baked.
Therein a tale ended,
a warm sincere hope half-sheltered.
To find you well,
and nothing else.

An Autumn Wind in a Winter Night

I can hear my footsteps on the cobblestone.
My time a misty fog.
Where we came from,
once painted with yellow lilies and scented tulips,
has now dissolved into a surreal silence.
The wintry chill is cold and sharp.
I see a signpost, and ponder at the empty words.
Where are you? I sigh...
I rest on a bench, next to a white picket fence.
It is time to dream, of tulips in an autumn wind.
Snow is falling, the perfume is dying,
but my dreamy world is full of warmth, and of truth and colors.
I'll wake up again,
with a language that can understand those empty words.
We'll be good again,
even though for now,
we can't see beyond,
in our surreal misty fog.