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Hi Lorraine—I’m puzzled about how my poem does not open for you. It’s in WORD format.
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let me know if you receive it—and can open it!
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The Mailbox
Summer 1950: afloat a rickety raft on Belmont Lake,
two teenagers pledged their troth.
Later that evening, we hugged, kissed,
promised to write every day.
During the first year, I posted a letter in the mailbox each evening
and found one waiting there for me.
Skipping the winding trail from my house,
I savored the scents of the seasons:
spring’s sweet purple pansies, summer’s pungent red roses,
autumn’s earthy golden sunflowers.
Around the holidays, his letters tapered off.
If the rush of my first love dwindled, a fragile hope lingered.
Summer 1951: one evening I noticed the door of the mailbox
was hanging open; a letter inside? No—two frightened chipmunks!
Each day, I arranged nuts and grains on the lip of the mailbox;
slowly my new friends inched their way to dinner.
After two weeks, the chipmunks were waiting for me,
eager to nibble from my fingers.
My 17th birthday, 1951: I wrote in my diary:
Teenage love is real for the moment.
I will always enjoy nature’s gifts in colors and aromas.
And, for as long as it may last,
I will spoil chipmunks at my mailbox.
Marian O’Grady ©
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