The paper said it all,

Mockingly yellow

Like the leaves on my lawn.

Brought with sorry eyes,

A tear on the tip of the postman's nose,

Bringer of yellow fever.

The envelope was death

And I was baited by the need to know:

How had it happened? Why?

How long did he have to bleed

Or was there blood at all?

Did he ache or just calmly fade

Like smoke sighs on the wind?

I pulled the yellow slip

From the horrible yellow envelope

Then read it, silently.

'I'll be home before long,

Maybe for Christmas.

I will love you always."

The paper said it all.