There is a stiff creamy colored envelope
resting on my table top this morning.
It boldly proclaims my name
(in a script altogether unfamiliar to me)
for all the world to see that it is mine.
I am afraid of it, this simple envelope,
which, despite its crisp simplicity,
has more elegance and grandeur
than a much more lavish one might display.
The contents, sight unseen, are frightening.
They hold their secrets, locked tight
by a simple line of glue and a small dab
of red wax with the stamp of a heart in it.
When I ask them to, they will tell me
the identity of their sender, by whose hand
they were selected with infinite care,
and all the cherished sentiments, some fresh,
others ancient and time tested, deeply meant.
For now, though, I'll let the light hesitant fear
and the gentle tug of curiosity mingle with awe,
then later I'll see what awaits my attention.
This work is © S. M. Clark, All Rights Reserved. You may not use, replicate, manipulate, redistribute, or modify this work without my express consent.
resting on my table top this morning.
It boldly proclaims my name
(in a script altogether unfamiliar to me)
for all the world to see that it is mine.
I am afraid of it, this simple envelope,
which, despite its crisp simplicity,
has more elegance and grandeur
than a much more lavish one might display.
The contents, sight unseen, are frightening.
They hold their secrets, locked tight
by a simple line of glue and a small dab
of red wax with the stamp of a heart in it.
When I ask them to, they will tell me
the identity of their sender, by whose hand
they were selected with infinite care,
and all the cherished sentiments, some fresh,
others ancient and time tested, deeply meant.
For now, though, I'll let the light hesitant fear
and the gentle tug of curiosity mingle with awe,
then later I'll see what awaits my attention.
This work is © S. M. Clark, All Rights Reserved. You may not use, replicate, manipulate, redistribute, or modify this work without my express consent.
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