long walk to the mail-box.
Her skirt blowing in the breeze and her
hair pulled up. The sun keeping her warm as she walks.
A smile comes to my face as I look
up and see her leave my sight.Anticipating which friend
will be waiting for her when she reaches the top.
Out of sight for a few minutes
and then I catch a glimpse of her.
Head down, there is no need to look up, she
knows her way home. She's done this
a thousand times since she could write.
Sending her thoughts across the p.o. boxes is as natural to her as eating.
Laying across her bed with new stationary and a few minutes, the sun
melts through the windows and she writes.
She just simply writes.
When she comes back in the house, her smile tells me that
the mailbox has not been a disappointment.
She re-reads her letters like they hold
a secret deep in side and she must search it out.
She inspires me to write.
She makes me long to go to the mail-box
and find a letter from a friend and with the last sun
of the day on my shoulders read it all the way home.