Letters - rough draft

This is the original, or "rough draft" of a poem I posted here some time ago, in its finished, more elaborate version. Letters I speak of letters, not the kind integral to poets and authors; the fabric with which they weave the tapestry of their craft. Not the letters that are the blood of human language. I speak of letters to loved ones seperated by distance and circumstance. I speak of letters- not the mundane stating the obvious, "I hope everything is fine". telling, "So and so did such and such". and, "This is what is happening". I speak of letters that resurrect sanity and faith in an insane existence. Letters that travel to foreign fronts- dismal prisons, letters waited on like the Messiah. How many soldiers have died with a perfumed letter tucked in their pockets? Fragrance and handwriting long since faded. And how many prisoners cherish these pieces of paper? Lines memorized like the words of a prayer. And what of the women waiting at home? Sweethears, wives and old mothers? For them too, there is a surge of adrenaline/anticipation when the mailman comes.