I speak of letters,
not the kind integral
to poets and authors ;
the fabric with which they weave
the tapestry of their craft.
Not the letters that are the blood
of human language.
I speak of letters-
to loved ones
seperated by distance and circumstance.
I speak of letters - not the mundane
stating the obvious,
" I hope everything is fine."
telling, So and so did such and such."
and, " This is what is happening."
I speak of letters that resurrect
sanity and faith
in an insane existence.
Letters that travel to foreign fronts-
dismal prisons,
letters waited on like the second coming.
How many soldiers have died
with a perfumed letter tucked in their
pockets?
Fragrance and handwriting long since faded.
And how many prisoners cherish
these pieces of paper?
Letters memorized
like the words of a prayer.
And what of the women waiting at home?
Sweethearts, wives and old mothers?
For them too, there is a surge
of adrenaline/anticipation
when the mailman comes.