The walk to the mailbox

She does it almost everyday, takes that

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.

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