no books
but encyclopedia,
hiding behind
drapes fidgeting,
national geographics
layered open

bangles elongating
necks, circular
cornfield in desert,
bedouin, tattered scrolls,
peking man

spread on top,
stutters untwisting,
hours unwrapping,
“this is my rock
and here I run
to steal the secrets
of the sun”

A late as usual response to the dVerse conversation from last week about early memories of poetry. The comments surfaced a very specific memory that took a bit to unpackage.

The last four lines are from a David McCord poem in the 1964 edition of World Book’s Childcraft (volume 1, Poems and Rhymes), a book that held much of my learning-to-read years. Here is the whole wonderful poem.

This is My Rock

This is my rock
And here I run
To steal the secret of the sun;

This is my rock
And here come I
Before the night has swept the sky;

This is my rock,
This is the place
I meet the evening face to face.