Reading from a book of poetry which is 77 years old has it’s charm. We count how much older or younger it is than our eldest living great-grandmother (the book is 12 years younger).
“Do you want me to read the ‘April Rain’ again?’ “Yes, actually no, the Tiger please, wait, let me see”. And she reads it slowly from top to bottom, rhyming ‘eye’ with ‘symmetry’ not forgetting ‘thy’ while her mother’s heart swells.
And this time we also manage to talk the ‘Four Paws’ through to the end. Imagining the sweet kitten with tabby bracelets on his wrists, washing it’s idle face, playing with Betsy Jane and being contend beneath her golden hand.
Feeling sad for his Mother, “The old gray cat with tattered ears, And humble tail and heavy paw, Who brought him up among the staw.”
And happy when he “Leaps form his cushion to the floor, Down the brick passage scantly lit,” till he “from the swinging lantern’s light, Runs to his mother in the night.”
Sweat dreams.
Green For The Eyes 