she sits by her window to write,
ever fond of the morning light;
not a day passes when she fails
to pen an epistle to him
she envisions him pulling
the missives from his saddle bags
perusing them a second time, a third,
admiring her chancery cursive
a year now since she saw him:
steady on his steed, his regiment
waiting, eager to join the fray, to ride
north under his proud command
perhaps at eventide, she will
write another letter, in case she
forgot anything she intended to say
this morn, or just to reach out again
before the setting of the sun
a cloud passes as she signs
her name, another as she folds
the paper; soon it seems, a gathering
storm--she places the letter in the
envelope, its traveling home
she turns the candle to pour
the wax, then presses the seal;
another story from her to him
ready for its long journey
the stroll from her room
to the mantel in the parlor
to the pile of paper that grows
higher above the hearth
a cold cavern of late, for
without him, she eschews all
things warm--for she knows
he must be freezing in the
cruel ground where he fell
(Spartanburg, South Carolina, Winter, 1863)