August 03, 2007

A Poem

The postman's ring, the doctor's call,
The damage done by the plumbers' men,
The rise in wages, the mercury's fall,
Knitting needles and crochet hooks,
An afternoon nap in a nice warm shawl,
And now and then, as a special treat,
A funeral passing down the street.
That's the way the future looks
When I've grown tired of books.
-by Edith Wharton


Carrie K said...

I love that poem! But tired of books? Never!

Petunia said...

I can't imagine being tired of books.