It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
Driving around, I will waste more time.
Excerpted from Collected Poems by Robert Bly. Copyright © 2018 by Robert Bly. Reprinted with permission of W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved.