Under the glorifying sun she sat,

Her fingers dancing with the rhythm of the wind

She peered down at the paper through the sunlight being filtered by her sun hat.

It was the hat he had gotten her for her birthday,

When everything else was even better than okay.

She sat, the pen held between her fingers, inscribing the words she wished to say the second he walked out the door.

And page after page, she only wanted to write more.

Under the extinguishing sun she sat,

The kids next door watched in wonder.

They thought: How does this lady sit there through heat, lightning and through thunder?

She shed no tears, had no fear, a lone smile gracing her light lips.

So if she was so happy, then why did she sit?

And write and write and write?

Didn't her fingers grow numb?

Was there no ache? In her head, in her hand, in her thumb?

Under the dimming sky she waited.

She had sent her letter, but received no reply.

So like always, she started writing another one, excuses clouding her mind.

Maybe it had gotten lost in the wind,

Or maybe its recipient had become too hard to find.

Under the rising sun she sat,

She had heard the news of the attack

Hundreds of soldiers lost their lives, they said.

They couldn't be saved, they recited.

Underneath the pouring rain she cried.

Not because she didn't want to believe that he wasn't replying because he had died.

Not because she didn't want to believe he wasn't coming home.

She cried because she could not write more letters, as the papers would get wet.

***