Postcards from an undercrowded heaven, because all the angels are on vacation in your kitchen, dancing on a tiny plastic table at the center of a pizza box.

Postcards that arrive as fresh flowers wrapped in newsprint, and all the headlines say hallelujah to: sunshowers, costume wings, candles on the bathtub rim, fireflies, liminal movie theater parking lots, snow that sifts in like God's making pastries, the moon foil-wrapped like a chocolate egg. Gold submarine glow of pool lights turning on at dusk, warm to the touch underwater.

Postcards from your cartwheeling girl-god, who keeps time by an hourglass she's always dumping out to build sandcastles. Slow down, do nothing, take a bubble bath in time — she doesn't care.

Postcards from a town where you've never been hurt, where each street bears new promise like unripened fruit, and every jukebox plays the song you just had in your head. Shuck your old skins like sweet corn husks. Wear your beauty like what it is: a secret only you know.

Postcards from the soft place inside yourself which only wants to love you. Do you feel it? Take me there.

Love,
Ruth