Reading House

I asked a little boy, seven years old, if his mama read to him.

He shook his curly head, shrugged his little shoulders;

No, not anymore.

And slowly I’m realizing that it’s a privilege, a treat, a blessing

To live in this house of books,

With the shelves full,

Boxes of books in the basement, too.

This house where the mother reads nearly every school day,

Stories from the Word and novels, too,

Stories stretching an hour, longer.

And they go to the library and they pull books off the shelf,

And at home, in the evening, she opens her books,

And she reads.




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