Turning today to the ever-reliable, ever-gorgeous, ever-evocative Anne Porter, who did not begin publishing poetry until she was 83 years old.
When I was a child
I once sat sobbing on the floor
Beside my mother’s piano
As she played and sang
For there was in her singing
A shy yet solemn glory
My smallness could not hold
(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)
Linda has the round up today at TeacherDance.