Hurricane Lodge

I. Beyond the Mailbox

This after­noon, noth­ing
stirs, save a ver­nal stream
con­vinced it is April instead
of Novem­ber.  Lone blue jay
bal­ances on a branch.  A few
scrag­gler leaves shiver
in the bare wind,
refuse to give in
like heart­sick, jilted
lovers, that sort of thing.

II. Today Inside the Mailbox

the steel shud­ders, rings
straight through to the Arc­tic
Cir­cle.  If no chill shat­ters,
then there is a tiny com­part­ment
of silence, like the inner cham­ber
of a bro­ken music box.  Even
a let­ter deposited
by loyal rural car­rier
can­not dis­place the quiet.
It merely slinks inside,
occu­pies the whole
rec­tan­gle, leaves noth­ing
but an earth­bound black hole
on this win­ter day.

III. The Mail­box is Look­ing Tough

This morn­ing the mail­box
looks the butt-end of last
night?s bar­room brawl
or did an errant plow fly­ing
down our road side­swipe
it in Feb­ru­ary half-light?
I had hoped its cement
bed, pressure-treated
six by six post, gal­va­nized
steel hous­ing, super–
cladded, Ace Spe­cial,
would pro­tect it
but its days seem
num­bered just like ours.