Rural Anticipation

By A.M. Pine

A metal creak, clank, and a squeak,

a faithful giver, daily, every week.

Crookedly-bent, red, stalwart standard,

washi tape, curly letter “y”, pen pal answered.

The hungry, mammoth mouth of a whale,

connoisseur cooks, and delivers our delectable mail.

Postal priest, bringer of the sacred outside,

gas bills, Menards rebates, flyers about sudsy Tide.

Oh, heroes and heroines of the local postal service,

Amazon packages, invites, thank yous, a deep purpose.

You bring to our quiet country lives,

anticipation, expectation, moments on which we thrive.

“Is there anything good?” we crowd around together,

knowing you came through the rain, and icy, cold weather.

The country still and quiet, your strobe light out of place,

your arrival, departure, a friendly wave and face.

An afternoon gift, beautiful stamp art, news from afar,

respite from modern issues, quicker news, Internet scars.

Something reminiscent of old times past,

hand-written scribbles, rumpled photos, things that last.

Even farther back, to the early days of speedy deliveries,

sweat dripping from foreheads, horses, pioneer memories.

With a flick of your wrist, mail dropped in, you gently tie us to others,

more than ever, this world round needs its sisters and brothers.

A.M. Pine lives in Wonewoc and writes at Hearth Ridge Reflections (ampine-hearthridgereflections.com) about the intersection between faith, relationships and nature.