Sunday Poems 51: Postal therapy

When I’m feeling stuck–either with writing, or anything else in my life–I get a favourite pen, a piece of paper, and write “Dear” at the top of the page. Often I don’t know who I’m writing to. I’ll write the name after “Dear” once I’m through the first page. It’s easy to know what to write in a letter, and I get to know that I’m writing to someone, even before I know exactly who that is.

The ritual is finished by folding the piece of paper twice. Crisp folds are performed using a bone folder: a life-saving tool for anyone concerned with objects being just so. Usually, the letter waits by the door, or in my jacket pocket for a few days before it makes it to a mailbox. There aren’t very many around. When I start hanging out in a new neighbourhood, I like to scout for mailboxes, so that I’ll be able to drop off letters. It’s good to recieve letters, but it’s even better to send them. Into a box, and it’s gone from your world.

Sunday are nice days to get on the bus for a while. Listen to an album you liked ten years ago. Five years ago, if ten years is too long. Maybe you feel bad, but for some reason, looking out the window at the trees while the bus is stopped at a light reminds you that someone might be thinking of you right now. It feels incredible. Below is a poem. As always, I’m here if you’d like to chat. Have a great week, everybody.


morning sun

for a long time
you watched me
write it all down.

a few mysteries
here and there but
mostly just my day.

journal moving
around the house,
desk to desk.

windows freezing
over and then
covered in droplets.


Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
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