November 25, 2022 - “Water Mail” by Rahil Najafabadi

I’m sitting by the window that frames a cold mountain,

Picturing a sea or an opening of blue water mail.

Don’t mountains have small waters, sounds of peace—

In the distance a frigid winter ahead, the clouds shy away.

I’ve turned away all elements of calm, only to invite the fire.

A black sky is upon us, a warm winter has died.

I only wanted to see the spring of waterfalls when the coldness is in motion—

Not downward gravitational, but on the horizon

of one living edge of Earth, to another extent of my imagination.