Enchanted by Early Readers Take Two

Find a lost boy
who teachers
say can't read
well enough to
be in regular class.
Find summer
mornings to linger
with him on the
front porch swing.
Take him bookwise
to Redwall. Let him
cringe when Cluny
the Scourge ravages
Mossflower Wood
and breaches the
Abbey wall. Watch
him shiver and look
over his shoulder
when Poisonteeth
tries his hypnotizing
tricks. Look away
when tears trickle
down his cheeks
as Abbot Mortimer
passes the baton.
Do a double take
when he starts wearing
his dad's oversized
flipflops and a fishing
knife stuffed in its scabbard -
belted to his waist -
Mathias style.
Reading is listening.
Do not tell me
this boy can't read.




P.S. If you love foreign movies, My Afternoons With Margauritte is streaming free on Netflix or maybe Amazon Prime. It is heartwarming and worth quoting and watching twice. 

Enchanted by Early Readers

Elleanor carried her current

book down to the beach. 

Early readers aren't heavy

burdens to pack up or down

steep trails. On the way back

she skipped ahead to catch me
trundling and heaving 

breathless up the steep incline - 

helped by hiking sticks. 

We stopped to rest and wait

by the entrance turnstile 

near the top for her 

mother and little sister.

She perched on the 

split rails and opened her book

to the page marked by a 

folded cloth napkin.

Composed and generous --

she offered to read to me.

I offered her my tiny pocket

flashlight to illuminate words 

shaded by old growth

cedars at dusk. Half way

down the page she stopped

to enthuse about the word shoul-

der which spilled over onto

the next line. She read it twice

to make sure it was as delicious 

the second time as the first. 

This girl lives hyphenated. She

enchants and captivates me -- 

another feminine being who will 

never be squeezed into one 

sentence, one line, or one page. 

Patches

Grating nutmeg helps me

return to my senses ~

like watering my

garden ~

or soaking

in a salted bath.

Something pungent

or wet or repetitive

needs doing ~

for there is no prescribed

patch to attach to my

heart when it fails adapting

to the gagging

motionlessness of

loneliness.