Anonymous

I got a postcard one day.
I laid on the table
face up in the sun
unread, from sender unknown.

Had it truly traveled from Spain?
The Basilica de la Sagrada
in a high blue sky.
Who would send me such a thing.

As the sun lumbered its load towards the sea,
I reached to turn it over, stopping mid-reach...
I never did.
I left the mystery fade away with the photograph.

Four years and it’s just as I left it,
white now, with a sliver of orange,
a weathered ghost on the barest of paper,
any ink long gone in the rain and relentless sun.

I thought sure I’d have heard from you again by now.