There was a tattered woman, too.
She wore shawls with so many colors
they were like a season in themselves,
or a remembrance of curious times and old money.
Each day, she strode to the post office,
and glided echoless down the marbled walls.
Perhaps she didn't believe in time,
or distrusted randomness and dreams.
Each day she posted a scented letter to herself
and picked up the letter from the day previous,
smelling,
oh, engulfed in the roseate sweetness
and
certainty of yesterday.
—Mitchell
Hegman
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