by Robert Clifton Storey Jr
Gazed upon with eyes of wonder, from a story I recant, its spell he’s under.
My first born neatly seated there, as I with words and gestures bring to life this tale so fair.
Drawings, words, imagination upon a hook, as together we peruse a picture book.
In later years, there’s child two, who readies himself for me to read between covers blue.
Jumping, twirling, dancing. I read this story quick to be heard, I’m chancing.
Rummaging, hopping, fussing. A plea for stillness. My nerves are mussing.
So I give up, defeated by this elf, and begin to place the tale back upon the shelf.
I dare not put this book of pictures down, for I have been met by a pouty, scoldy frown.
So jump and read, and read and twirl. I am reading not to a boy, but to a squirrel.
Now we are not alone, another secretly listens too, though much more grown.
The first one calmly lurking from his haven in the hall, still mesmerized by this story tall.
Even though these words and pictures, over and over, he has heard them all.
Drawings, words, imagination upon a hook, as together we three peruse this picture book.