Bryson (my 9-year-old son who has shown quite and aptitude for looking both ways before crossing, unless he is in a parking lot)came home the other day and handed me this poem, which took be just a bit to read because of his fairly bad penmanship (like father, like son). It went like this:

It always
makes me think
I ought to bloom
myself.

And
that's when
I start to plan
my New Year
Celebration!

I finally choose
a day
that is
exactly
right.

Even the air
has to be
perfect,
and the dirt
has to feel
good and warm
on bare feet.


Me: "Bryson, did you write this?" Him: "Yeah." Me; "Really?" Him: "Yes, I wrote it." Me, thinking the boy is a prodigy, that this is a talent I must cultivate, thinking he might be to literary endeavors what Tiger Woods is to golf, "Wow, this is really really good." Him: "Thanks." Me, nagged by disbelief because it is way too good to be true: "So this is all yours, right? You wrote it." Him: "Yes, I wrote it. I copied it out of a book, but I wrote it."

Ah well, close but no cigar.