The Postman

I love the postman for what he brings

      Albeit he brings me joy or pain;

My heart gives a bound whene’er he rings,

      Though it means for me loss or gain.

I fly to the door when the postman rings

      Expectant, yet half afraid;

It may be a letter of love he brings,

      Or a reminder of bills unpaid.

Still I’m anxious to see him cross the street

      And stop with his load at my door;

He may hand me gold, he may hand me myrrh,

      A letter that pleases or stings;

Still I am anxious, my pulses stir

      Whenever the postman rings.

O, soul clad in gray you never know

      As you ring at each waiting door

Whether ‘tis joy or whether ‘tis woe

      You hand from your daily store.

But the world awaits your every call

      It listens your step and ring;

You do your best for us one and all,

      We love you for what you bring.

Sept. 13, ‘10

Monday, Sept. 19