Sharon A Gibbs 
I have a secret to share: This summer I read countless children’s picture books to myself—not just once, but several times, even at bedtime.
There’s more. I have a children’s-book buddy. (It surprised me, too.) It’s like a poetry buddy, but we read children’s picture books instead of poems.
What encouraged this surprising turn of events? Here’s how it went down.
One day I heard a gentle thump on our foyer’s tile floor, followed by the click of the dead bolt as my husband headed out for the afternoon.
What was that?
I approached the front door and found a box, its Amazon smile tempting me. I didn’t recall ordering anything, but carried the box to the kitchen, sliced through the packing tape, and pulled back the ends. Nestled inside was a calming sea of color: ocean blues, waves of white, and laurel green hills. I picked Miss Rumphius from the pile, a picture book written by Barbara Cooney
Children’s books? Were these delivered to the wrong address?
Continue reading at Tweetspeak Poetry.
Photo by Raita Futo, Creative Commons, via Flickr.
