Poem-a-day in April!
This little book next to me This cast-off tome With it's curled Yellow pages Rough along the edges, Begs me to Pick it up. To hold it, To cradle it, To flip through the pages. The soft sound of pages turning, And it Smells like my childhood Not quite dusty But rich And full of memories. Even as I read silently My lips move, Because that is what you do. The words of Robert Frost Hang there - In the air. And they make me pause Pause and wonder At the beauty Of this little book With its dusty pages And childhood smell.