It is a nightly ritual; <br />there are two piles of books <br />in his bedroom; <br />(that room where darkness <br />never enters) : <br />Those which have been read <br />and those which have yet to reveal <br />the treasure that lies within. <br /> <br />He cannot read yet <br />but will trace his fingers <br />across the words <br />and tell me what they must say <br />(if the pictures could speak) : <br />And who am I to say <br />that what is written <br />is any more eloquent? <br /> <br />The soft toy dogs, <br />two of them, <br />snuggle into his chest <br />(motionless with anticipation) : <br />He fidgets turning the pages <br />already imagining the story unfold <br />before I dampen the magic <br />with spoken words. <br /> <br />Now I follow his lead <br />and say what they should say <br />(and not what is written) : <br />For all that is written <br />is for imagination <br />and not simply repetition.<br /><br />David Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-repetition/
