Somewhere, sometime, someone delivers
a letter to a graveyard, pushes it through
a mailbox slot in the fence where it waits
until the breeze carries it to mausoleum,
to tomb, to graveside, to tomb, for the dead
to read to find out what’s in it for them.

No one knows why anyone writes such a letter,
puts it into an envelope addressed to whom
it may concern, and drops it off at the graveyard
gate at sundown. No one that is, except
the dead, who will be pleased at the concern
that someone still shows for them.

Everyone, except the dead, must think it
useless to write a letter to anyone who
no longer exists. Yet some things are so
important that they must be written down
even if they are never read because
if everyone were to see themselves

as dead—smaller and clearer as through
the opposite end of a telescope—then
we would all understand the importance
of writing and hand delivering our letters
to a graveyard gate and for patience
to await the favor of a reply.

Tom Roby IV