Friday, July 20, 2012
I have posted about Richard Wilbur, oh, about 111 times. But not for awhile. So, today, perhaps my favorite poem in the world about writing. And daughters.
by Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
(Read the rest of the poem here, at The Writer's Almanac.)
The round up is at A Teaching Life.