There is a post office with no dead letter box,
on the border of space,
receiving and sending letters from
all creation,
bungled by their feeble faith,
and the Creator
limited by His gift of freedom.

But the mail handler moonlights as translator.
She speaks all languages,
Spanish, Mongolian, Saturnian, lion, snail.
She understands the essence of thoughts,
hope, anxiety, assurance, love,
tear streaked poetry,
the jumble of cross cosmos communication
from ancestors, saints, little devils,
atheists in fox holes.

All this correspondence rolls out, finally,
in a steady stream of prayerful ticker tape,
“…so help, my faith is failing…”
“… and send the rain…”
“Please, give us, daily, bread…”
“…and don’t let the river rise any higher…”

Answered by one constant reply,
“I love you.
Keep doing what you can do.
I will not fail.
Keep sending mail.
I’ve already paid
the postage due.”