Just Past the Rusted Mailbox

Just past the rusted mailbox, I walked her from the road;

She turned her head to listen to the river as it flowed.

I watched her dark hair blowing, like the soft-reeds with the breeze,

For love was whole and perfect, and I was at my ease.


Outside a country restaurant, the sky was branching red;

To hide the gath’ring teardrops, she turned her graceful head.

Her dark hair passed beside me, as she lightly touched my arm;

For love lay dead and broken, and twas I that did the harm.

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