The letter came at midday,

when the sky was the same color

as the amber fires

striking havoc

in the center of the state.

Hazy storm clouds with golden seams,

middle-yellow-red,

draped whatever summer day

originated

that morning.

A dispirited sign

of what was to come

from a legal sized envelope,

my own handwriting

on the front,

in hopeful script,

now mournful calligraphy,

bereaving encouragement

to move on,

and so, I am;

neutral.

Pain buried under apathy,

indifference

as a protective layer.

“It just wasn’t the right time.”

“The wrong fit helps no one.”

N...

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