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My mother reads nice books to me,
while I sit perched upon her knee
and turn the pages carefully
for fascinating things to see.
A little girl has lost her sheep:
a poisoned prncess, fast asleep:
a wooden puppet starts to weep,
and magic vines through white clouds creep.
A little pig builds strong with bricks;
his brother uses only sticks;
a big, bad wolf plays dirty tricks,
and seven miners swing their picks.
I love the skies all filled with stars,
the scratch-and-smell from cookie jars,
the push-to-hear of soft guitars,
the pop-out-page of railroad cars.
I cannot read the words just yet,
and it's a loss that I regret,
but something tells me not to fret,
for soon I'll know my alphabet.
And when I'm old and have a child,
I'll read from books that I have piled
upon my shelves and neatly filed
and watch her smile as I have smiled.
This poem first appeared in the Montana State Reading Journal.
Used here with permission.
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Cornelius Farrell Kelly (1936 - 2026) was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. As an adult, he moved to Pinedale, Wyoming and lived, with his wife of 60+ years, in a house they built with the help of their ten children at an altitude of 7300 feet above sea level. Cork began writing poetry at age twelve, eventually published eight chapbooks, and wrote a rhyming couplet every morning to post on his Facebook page. Cork spent twenty years teaching high school English and Spanish, then learned to swim and became coach of a girls' swim team. Late in life, he became a competitive swimmer (he said he frequently got ideas for a poem while swimming), participating in several senior events and, ultimately, qualifying for the National Senior Olympics. Learn more about him here.
 
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