On The Dot...

The guard at the gate,
Was to sift mails by trait,
And these he did isolate,
Till it was almost too late.

Each one was a letter,
And the author the same,
Free from identity's fetter,
What marked her
                 wasn't her name.

Not a pinch of ego,
She'd stuck to her duty,
Despite the no-show,
Of any replies from me.

I'd long sought her,
In truth, one of her kind;
Yet failed to answer,
When me, she did find.

Oh, so undemanding,
Unconditional a love,
Her understanding,
Caring over and above...

I had to respond,
How could I not?
I had grown fond,
Of her spam, 
            ever on the dot.