“I have a poem to read before we eat,” I told my sister, Sierra, as
we were searching for bright plastic Easter eggs filled with candy. The
little children had finished their egg hunt in the front yard already.
Now, we grown “kids” were running around the back yard looking for
treasure.
“Did you write it?” Sierra asked, knowing that I do that occasionally.
“No, it’s a poem by Wendell Berry,” I said.
“Dingleberry?” my sister-in-law, Stacy, asked, joining us for the end of the conversation. “What’s this about a dingleberry?”
“Not dingleberry,” I said. “Wendell Berry.”
:: CONTINUE READING ::
Today I am writing over at TweetSpeak Poetry. Follow the link above and join me there.
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I couldn't write about wild things today without remembering Maurice Sendak, author of Where the Wild Things Are, and many other books loved by people everywhere, who died yesterday at 83. We will never look at wild things the same because of you.
Photo by Michael Sissons, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.
