She is holding the book close to her body,
carrying it home on the cracked sidewalk,
down the tangled hill.
If a dog runs at her again, she will use the book as a shield.
She looked hard among the long lines
of books to find this one.
When they start talking about money,
when the day contains such long and hot places,
she will go inside.
An orange bed is waiting.
Story without corners.
She will have two families.
They will eat at different hours.
She is carrying a book past the fire station
and the five and dime.
What this town has not given her
the book will provide; a sheep,
a wilderness of new solutions.
The book has already lived through its troubles.
The book has a calm cover, a straight spine.
When the step returns to itself,
as the best place for sitting,
and the old men up and down the street
are latching their clippers,
she will not be alone.
She will have a book to open
and open and open.
Her life starts here.
Fuel: Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye
( BOA Editions Ltd., 1998) by kind permission of the poet.
I sent him from home hardly more than a child. Years later, he came back…
So many colors abandon the earth, and go skyward to the trees like origami birds,…
may there be a listening rather than a making curiosity over expectation, lightness and ease,…
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