The Postbox

My humble friend

I stopped mid-step and looked at you.

How long have you been standing here?

With a glad heart, I spoke to you.

Holding dozens of other people’s stories,

you stand perfectly still, modestly,

ready to listen to mine.

The next day, and the day after that,

when it rained, I came with an umbrella;

when it snowed, I let the snow fall on me

and still went to you.

To you, who listens only to my voice,

I gave letters crumpled in anger,

letteres blurred by tears soaking the ink,

and pretty birthday cards to make others jealous.

Whether happy, sad, or furious,

you never refused me—

always, without fail,

you took my story in.

You never make a show of it,

yet kindly send a postman

right to my door,

delivering replies with quiet grace.

Dressed in the same red uniform,

in unfamiliar places, even foreign lands,

wherever one goes,

you have friends everywhere.

Even when I’ve nothing to say,

nothing worth writing,

you still whisper,

Why not send a little news?

And today again,

you gently tempt me.

*these are my own paintings*