The Architect of the Mailbox

The porch light caught the silver rigging late,

a geometry I’ve walked through for a month.

It’s anchored to the wood and the rusted gate,

a map of patience and a steady strength.

In the center hangs a dry and brittle prize,

a dead moth wrapped in silk like a tiny tooth.

I’ve been a ghost before my own two eyes,

ignoring beauty and ignoring truth.

I stood there with my keys and felt the chill,

a guest upon the steps where I reside.

The world is busy when the heart is still,

building houses while I stay inside.