Missed Mark

The postmark blurred, a faint, pale grey,

six weeks, they said, it went astray.

A cousin's hand, a looping line,

addressed to me, a sudden sign

of summer plans, a promised tea.

She wrote of gardens, then of light.

Her funeral passed, just days, you see,

before this paper met my sight.

It spoke of 'next year,' of a tune

she'd hummed, a hope that never grew.

Now, holding it beneath the moon,

it's just a story, fresh and new

and finished, all at once, so cold.

A future that would not unfold.