The Postman Poem by John Rickell

The postman called right early
the sun had hardly shone
precious thoughts to share
open secrets but dare to tell
words that shall be read
much more than once
wisdom, foolishness and truth
the jigsaw that is life.
Look no further than the mirror
its silver back, prevents the view
look behind, are you sure it’s you?
Is there past or but a dream
prick yourself did you feel the pain?
See the healing scar, the crooked finger
the wrinkle on your brow, creased
long ago by happy childish laughter
sat on mothers knee proof that memory
not illusion, things did happen
as your mind remembers.
Forget-me-nots in garden vases,
how do they remember, how did they come
was it on the feathers of the sparrow
and will its memory help it return next year?
The book in my lap and thoughts dispersed
six thousand miles and wisdom to read
enter the mind and share the joy
that makes life the bittersweet
and ours to choose.