One day the gift arrives — outside your door,
Left on a windowsill, inside the mailbox,
Or in the hallway, far too large to lift.
Your postman shrugs his shoulders, the police
Consult a statute, and the cat miaows.
No name, no signature, and no address,
Only, “To you, my dearest one, my all …”
One day it all fits snugly on your lap,
Then fills the backyard like afternoon in spring.
foto – coldstream street and the books of w w jacob. nov 2009.