Poetry

This morning during the usual rush to get out the door, Kidlet pointed to a book that I had sitting in her room. I told her it was a book of poetry.

"What's poetry, Mama?"

I opened the book and read a brief poem about sleeping under the pines and on the boulders and how a calendar was no longer necessary because they were living in the moment, at peace. I explained it to her as best I could.

"I've got a poem for you, Mama, 'I love you'."

That's a good one.