From Fox in Socks to Keats, the words delight
And tangle tongues to joy, a farrago
Of syllables and sound like leaves that blow
To settle in great heaps, red, gold, and bright.
And reading is enchantment, as we grow
We sink into a story every night
Holding our breath in hopes all will come right
And enter in a place that’s known, and know.
The magic of reading eludes the empirical
But there we are caring, the everyday miracle
That rises from pages, and words plain or lyrical
That make us partake of some people, a place
That never existed, in time or in space
But move us to laughter, to tears, to grace.
23rd October 2016