The Mailbox At The End Of The Lane Poem by Frank Avon

for Shoestring (ca.1949-1964)

The red flag
on the mailbox
- ours had faded
in sun and rain
summers and winters -
always seemed
to grow brighter
each December

in the season of
woolen sweaters
braided holly
shiny red ribbons
packages and
envelopes.

Every morning
at about eleven,
Mr. Warner blew his horn
going around every curve
up Gnat Grove Hill,

and, no matter the weather,
Shoestring at my heels
(if you did not keep her tied,
this little rat terrier
was always under your feet)
I raced down the lane
faster than wheels.

Old Santa Claus
had retreated years ago
(become another myth) .
I filled my own stocking,
trimmed our tree
with icicles and tinsel,
put a wreath on the door
and Mamma's candlesticks
on the mantelpiece,
amid fresh magnolia leaves,
green and shiny,
sometimes silvered,
and loops of red rope.

And Shoestring and I
it was,
who brought back
packages
and envelopes
from the mailbox
at the end of the lane,
to the long front porch,
through the front door
into our big front room
heated by its Warm Morning heater,

from Ruth in Ft. Worth,
from Merle at Roberson Fork,
Sarah Margaret in town,

from MaMa Clift
Aunt Vivian
Uncle Horace's eight
Cousin Brownie
an uncle in Nashville
an uncle in Akron
maybe from
someone
unexpected.


What Shoestring and I brought
in those packages
and envelopes:
what was sealed inside
and beribboned, was

Joy and Love,
Peace and Hope,

gifts that never break
or fade
gifts of Providence
gifts of Grace.