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High up in the loving crook of two adjoined cottonwood trees
I spent my eleventh summer reading seven library books a day.
A sandwich, glass of cold lemonade, these books and I
would climb up into that treehouse in the morning.
As I read, I would study ants and other minute creatures.

Mrs. Rutherford’s voice would float up.
I could hear Mrs. McDowell’s funny titter.
I might look up occasionally to see kids playing tag,
or Red Rover Red Rover.

The soft breeze might try to lull me to sleep if it was a boring book,
in which case I would begin another.
I was an eclectic reader. I liked mysteries, biographies, science fiction, and thrillers.

Agatha Christie became a favorite after “And then there were none”
None of her other books lived up, but I read them still, hoping.
My daddy built that treehouse, and I will be forever grateful.
I’d climb down in the afternoon to return these books to the library.

Collecting seven new books to read the next day
because our small town library limited me to seven.
It was okay, for this was about all I could read in one day anyway.

I learned a lot about the world from these books,
but even more about the world
As I spied on the neighbors, watching their lives unveil, as their
excited voices carried themselves to the top of those cottonwood trees.

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