May I ask,
when hands are quaking beneath
an empty winters sun,
palms chapped and a sand paper tongue,

Why you have chosen to wait
in the ceaseless white snow
for a letter?

If you are expecting a lullaby
to appear,
wrapped snug
in the crackle of bubble wrap,
tucked away
in a fold of Manila,

You would be more hopeful
to listen out for a
bare whispering of the melody
upon the frigid wind.

Why you would choose
to stand and wait
on a Sunday when all is clear ice
is beyond me.

May I say,
as your fingers go numb,
I hope it is worth it.