A brown paper envelope,
Inscribed by you, addressed to me,
With quaint, old-fashioned stamper-y:
It lies upon the butcher block,
Its letters screaming at me.
To but a few, your idio-
Syncratic script crawls ‘cross the bundle:
And yet, it trails both here and there,
And deviates, not following
The script, the text, the primer
Where you learned that coded syntax:
Like Leonardo, with his beard
Now trailing down, untended-to,
His head bare, eyebrows bristling,
Exhausted, writing forwards.
It seems but a small error,
Just a crack, chink in the armor
Defending you from all the
Disbelievers in your prowess,
And yet, you could not let this go.
Though your inventions fade with you,
Though we watched your body fading, too,
You could not neglect my birthday.
Copyright 2018 Andrea LeDew