A child’s poetry book lies here waiting
for the mother’s voice and the child’s keen ear.
The Muse understands mom’s hesitating,
caught up in mankind’s demands, psyche’s fear,
actions to find faith and serene refuge
for herself and her child. Could their haven
lie in the book’s pages, its sweet deluge
of words from sages aligned with millions
of stars, with the oak tree’s roots reaching deep
into earth for the rain’s last resting place?
Could this book invite us to laugh and weep?
Trace avenues to heaven and God’s grace?
Can poets sense our search, just what it took
to come this far? Can this be in the book?
Roger Armbrust
November 7,
2013
