There is a path somewhere trodden by years of feet passing.

Hidden just beyond thoughts and prayer.

Where the homes have been built to be destroyed

And the wind chimes tell you children's stories.

You can see the posts that point 

the dreams caught in spiderwebs 

The mailboxes left unread…

But the ground turns to soil as the sky opens wide. 

The mailbox falls open when the spiderwebs die. 

The letters sit waiting like dreams you can come back to

Night after night.