There is a post office with no dead letter box,
on the border of space,
receiving letters from creation,
all bungled by their feeble faith,
to a 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 the thoughts:
hope and its close cousin, anxiety; the need for 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, fitting each circumstance like a dime in the pay phone.

“I love you.
Keep doing what you can do.
I will not fail.
Keep sending mail.
I’ve already paid
the postage due.”