The Mailbox

My beautiful picture

Within the box we placed all that we felt:

Paper, ink pen, wrapper, postage, fancies,

To thank or wish, invite and yes to pelt,

Johnsons, Roses, Lowells, Bakers, Clancys,

Cursive letters written by hands of those,

None too busy that a word not be found,

Inside their heart as a song to compose,

So sweet, the notes opened and read, the sound!

A text’s message, can it truly be known?

Its font the germ of those of no address,

Fluid no more our words, should we bemoan?

Yet guilt of said offense all must confess,

Regret no more will I these sorts of posts,

Where to the wide world we send pics and boasts.

© 2016

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