My daughter's book is plain to see, a light
Reflecting others in the room, a shade
Resting comfortably. She shifts her arm,
And swings her hair out of her vision's way.

She reads as one attends the theater,
Thoughts crossing her face and countercrossing
Until she must move her whole position,
Wrestling relentlessly, still hair-tossing.

And I must protect this space she's in,
Bring her food and water, keep the quiet,
Though music makes its inroads distantly,
And my own tapping tends to defy it.

Now she's put her marker in, murmuring
Twice "the chapter," and letting go a surge
Of badly garbled words, up she stumbles
Out of bed and stands, her trance undisturbed;

And falls back, and reaches for her book
And sighs, and looks at me. Would she, I ask,
Go and get me water, please, I'm thirsty,
And writers need sustinence for the task.

"What task?" she asks, as nine year olds will,
Without a bit of sympathy; "I'm tired,"
She adds a little plaintively. "My book"
I offer, caught in lag time, meaning mired.

We stare at each other, reader and writer
Trying thirstily to fathom meaning
In that hinterland between the silent
Making of books and their quiet reading.

Mary Freeman

see her web site:
The Muse