Les Cornelius Poet I do not know?

Envelope

the day i was born,
my mom kissed me 
on  my head:
sealing the envelope
i'd carry around in my pocket.

when i was four,
my envelope
was colored with crayon
"i love mommy"s 
and i took it to school
for people to peak at
in the share-bag.

in first grade,
i loved 
to show off my envelope,
which was now neatly
decorated with whales 
and such.
once i kept it close to my ear,
to listen inside,
but all i heard 
was my teacher yelling.

when i was 9,
we were encouraged
to fill a notebook
with things called poems
reflecting our envelopes.
i always kept it in my hand
and sometimes used it as an excuse
if i ever had a papercut.

when i was 13,
i opened my envelope
and looked inside
to see what it was like.
and suddenly, 
i cried
and feared that the paper inside
might rip.

today,
i hold 
the folded paper 
in my hand,
and watch it unfold.
i know i have to hide it
-keep it close,
and i know
i can?t re-mail it.
but i?ll always look
at all the creases,
the drawings,
the folds,
the scribbled words,
and the 
neatly printed ones.
and hope that soon
i'll feel it's worth 
the read.

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