RIBBON OF LETTERS

 

Three miles from home on a strange road

at the edge of woods seldom visited,

 

the house stood silent, dusty windows

webbed across the crack of glass.

 

Curt and I, coming home from fishing,

stopped to explore.  The inside -- empty,

 

except for a tilted table, two wooden chairs,

a broken chest of drawers.  The drawers

 

contained only spiders and this: a packet

of yellowed letters, tied by red ribbon.

 

I reached for them, was chilled by what felt

like a whisper.  We left the letters untouched,

 

undisturbed bones in a coffin.