The clock hands seems stuck--
I cross off another day--
wait for the next.
Months erased, how many more?
His orders arrived a week before our vows.
I dried long stem roses
and framed the poem he left on the desk.
It's been a year now.
The enlarged snapshot I hung above the bed's curling.
I catch a glimpse of his dark round eyes,
white, white smile as I climb into our bed.
The undershirt he wore the last night,
hangs on the headboard.
As casualties are posted,
I clutch it against my face.
I hesitate to answer the doorbell--
bury the telephone.
His letters feel warm against my chest--
I search for his scent.
I pray and have faith
the man who left me standing at the port--
will return to me.