PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The value of anticipation when esteemed postmen were praised, and tipped handsomely with coins, is gone. The breaking of the wax, and unfolding of crisp, yellow parchment. "Meet me by the garden at 8," coupled with a sigh and a heave of the breast. What has happened to the sound of quill on fiber, dipped into a well of romance disguised as ink? The reply being "of course, my love," and carried off, by coach, amid the cobbled streets and horses hooves. Where are the nights when the letter never came, and urgency set in? Hours upon hours of waiting by crackling flames for response, only for it to come a week later. "On account of the snow storm, me lady," the coachman says. The breaking of wax, the heaving of the breast, and all is well again.