Whose book is this?
Asks the six-year-old
In a loud whisper,
Awe and respect in her words,
Her hands reverently caressing
The hard cover.
Whose book is this?
She says, looking around
At her mother and friends;
Then she looks around
At her own little friends.
Whose book is this?
Hers, replies the mother
Pointing to me.
The little girl's eyes rest on me
With newfound admiration.
She's known me a long time, but
Today she sees me with new eyes.
Can I see it? Again the polite whisper
As though the majestic book
Must not be disturbed, or
Awakened from its slumber.
Of course, I say, and she
Opens it carefully.
It's not a picture book,
She does not care.
She's not old enough to read it;
The six hundred page book
Does not intimidate her;
The tiny font does not deter her.
I watch her turn the pages
Slowly, lovingly, respectfully,
And when it is time to leave
She replaces it gently,
And smiles at me.
Today I see her with new eyes too.
Asks the six-year-old
In a loud whisper,
Awe and respect in her words,
Her hands reverently caressing
The hard cover.
Whose book is this?
She says, looking around
At her mother and friends;
Then she looks around
At her own little friends.
Whose book is this?
Hers, replies the mother
Pointing to me.
The little girl's eyes rest on me
With newfound admiration.
She's known me a long time, but
Today she sees me with new eyes.
Can I see it? Again the polite whisper
As though the majestic book
Must not be disturbed, or
Awakened from its slumber.
Of course, I say, and she
Opens it carefully.
It's not a picture book,
She does not care.
She's not old enough to read it;
The six hundred page book
Does not intimidate her;
The tiny font does not deter her.
Slowly, lovingly, respectfully,
And when it is time to leave
She replaces it gently,
And smiles at me.
Today I see her with new eyes too.
