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Posts Tagged ‘letter writing’

This poem was inspired by a dear friend.  I can’t even describe how

much I love him.  But it’s also intended to be a big tip of the hat to all the

good folks who still value the beauty of “slow” human communication via

letters and e-mail.  It is an art form, and you do it so well.

.

Even the small amount of time I spend on the internet sometimes gets to

me.   But you are real.  You are beautiful.  I print out your e-mails, and I find

your envelopes in my mailbox.  I take your words into the woods with me

and read them away from the mind numbing hum of the computer.  Thank

you for taking the time to send your soul.  You keep me sane.

.

The man with the mandolin in this poem is real, but I don’t know who he is.

I just thought it was perfect that I heard his singing on the day my friend’s

letter came.   His words are music.

.

Mailbox

A Friend Sends Me Letters

.

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

.

I walk barefoot

to the mailbox

at the end of

my dirt road.

.

Two hills away,

a man sings and

a mandolin plays.

.

Last night’s rain

has melted into sun.

.

A wild turkey clucks

through muddy reeds;

mist rises by the pond.

.

The mailbox shines silver,

creaks open, and there’s

a letter my friend sends

.

covered in stamps

and a picture I love

of a stick man

he always draws

on the envelope.

.

He writes letters

to me

with two fingers

.

on a manual typewriter

under noon day shade

of a black locust tree,

.

leaves little bits of himself

on the paper–his words

.

smell like a garden

churned butter,

a rumble of thunder.

Warm beer spilled

on a barroom floor.

.

He tells me stories

about red chickens,

the wind and the rain.

Guitars, lovers, poetry.

Those hard old days.

.

It’s not an electronic card

sent to fifty others

with a push of a button.

.

Not a Facebook message.

Not a snippet on Twitter.

.

It’s an experience

inside a sunny box

on a wet wooden pole.

.

It’s a slow cup of

black coffee,

a piping hot

slice of sanity,

.

a soft waltz

in the country.

.

An unfolding

of a soul.

.

It’s how words

on the page

should sing.

.

.

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