Poignant Post Office

The scent of paper, aged and slightly worn, A quiet hum where stories have been born. The postal office stands, a steadfast keep, Where whispered secrets travel in their sleep. Behind the counter, faces kind and known, Have seen our joys and sorrows gently shown. The anxious wait, the hopeful hurried hand, Reaching for letters from a distant land. Each numbered slot, a tiny private space, Holding fragments of a time and place. A birthday card, a bill that's overdue, A fragile photograph forever true. The weight of packages, both big and small, Carrying wishes, answering every call. A gift exchanged, a comfort sent with care, Across the miles, a silent bond to share. The faded notices upon the wall, Of services and rates, encompassing all. A sense of history, within these walls, Where news has journeyed, answering life's calls. Now emails fly on currents swift and free, Yet still we seek that tangible decree. The ink on paper held within our hand, A human touch, we still can understand. So let us pause within this humble space, And feel the echoes of a slower pace. The postal office, more than just a mail, A poignant link that never will quite fail. ©bfa040525