The spring of the Becca bear

She stirs her longing into the light of day,
A secret envoy by her lashes lay.
The warm wind grinds old words to pulpy clay,
She watches the mailbox both night and day.

She tends the mossy steps with quiet care,
Bids one small swallow off — not knowing a farewell forever.
The seasons trade the night and day,
That gentle hope grows older at the door.

Spring waters stroke the empty nest and hill,
Time rings in ripples, circling soft and still.
She waits a letter etched in floral thread,
The breath of time gradually fading away.

That year, drifted apart among flowers and birdsong.
That’t the spring of the Becca bear.