Their post marks stamp a year, a place,
another time before the dawn
of horseless carriages, before
the wars that tore at them were lost
or won. They speak of school, of birth-
day presents, Christmas and the Yule.
Their sisters, cousins, aunts and others
impressed upon these leaves ...
... all dead. What lives are words
and promises ink-penned between these lines
once wrote, once read. Now read again.
The postmarks fade; the ink is smudged
from mail that was sent back then.
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