A House of Readers
At 9:42 on this May morning
the children’s rooms are concentrating too.
Like a tendril growing toward the sun, Ruth
moves her book into a wedge of light
that settles on the floor like a butterfly.
She turns a page.
Fred is immersed in magic, cool
as a Black Angus belly-deep in a farm pond.
The only sounds: pages turning softly.
This is the quietness
of bottomland where you can hear only the young corn
growing, where a little breeze stirs the blades
and then breathes in again.
I mark my place.
I listen like a farmer in the rows.
I love the analogy that a parent is like a farmer helping their children go grow (although I don’t think I’d ever compare one of my children to a cow). And I love the idea that books are one of the best ways to do that. Books were a huge part of my childhood. I want a home like this some day with my own children.
I’ve never heard of this poet before, but I just found the above poem this morning on Tumblr. You can click on his name to visit a little website someone made about him.