A rough palm fumbles into fleece –
For a letter, folded fourfold once again,
Bringing the spirit of home through the iron forest.
He smoothed the corner where the line was worn,
A graphite contour fades upon the crease –
The memory held stubbornly by the fingers.
He breathed it in… it smells of sky and the breast
Of her who waits. His throat tightened.
He found warmth in the quiet shadow,
Where home arises from the letters.
He forgot the trigger; his index finger froze,
The tension in his muscles quietly receding.
He gently strokes the wrinkled paper…
Four Folds
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