(In memory of Popsey and Grandmother, who started it all)
When I was just a little child,
Of the tender age of one,
My grandparents gave me a book of verse
By Robert Louis Stevenson.
“A Child’s Garden of Verses”
Was the name its cover held,
And the adventures this gift brought me
Would take forever to tell.
It took me all around the world,
To India and back, and then,
I heard its siren call once more,
And we went around again.
And when I was cold and lonely,
On a snowy winter’s day,
We went to a garden in the summertime,
Where children ever play.
And as I read this book of verse
And heard its lilting rhyme,
I wondered then if I could write
With meter and in time.
So I began to put down words
And it became poetry,
And I’ve found in them a wonderful gift
Only God could give to me.
Still, I’m grateful to my grandparents,
For that book they gave to me,
Because it gave me a dream I now live out
When poems set my spirit free.
But now my grandparents are growing old,
Though I know their love is still as strong
As the day they gave me a Christmas book
That would be with me my whole life long.