Although I write a poem a day,
Most people do not read it.
It's fine with me; my ego
Needs no compliments to feed it.
Yet sometimes an acknowledgement
Can lift my spirits high
And yesterday I got one
From my favorite little guy.
From out of nowhere, Henry asked,
With interest you can't fake,
"Nana, what's your poem about?"
Such joy I can't forsake.
For knowing that a 5 year old,
As dear to me as air,
Is curious about my life -
Well, nothing can compare.
Though children are surprising
And those close to us excel,
I'm still pleased as punch with Henry -
Or perhaps you couldn't tell!
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