Julian, too young yet to read or write, marches to the teacher's desk, a folded paper in his hands. ``My poem'' he announces and shows her the sheet: blank - not a mark. ``Oh wait, I forgot ... '' he says and then, in wobbly crayon, scrawls ``Jul - i - an'' at the top. Confident, he reads off the empty page his newest poem. It is about orchards in autumn, apples red as luck, rabbits with handbaskets dashing down hillsides gathering soup bones and apricots. Julian reads, careful, slow, until the conclusion. Then he steps back a bit to await opinion. ``Your best one yet'' the teacher smiles, refolding the sheet. ``Let's save it for the poet and see what he thinks.''
Dear Julian, I have read the new poem written large across your pond-green eyes, the mercurial penmanship of the invisible. So much a six-year-old has to tell us! When I forget, I reread your white page. Pure poetry! I am jealous. This page is part of a series printed on the first Wednesday of every month.