The Moon’s the North Wind’s cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there’s but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there’s but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.
The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!
~ Vachel Lindsay (1879 – 1931)
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!
~ Vachel Lindsay (1879 – 1931)
Many of the moments in my life are played over a track of poems from a book read to me as a kid. The book was called Silver Pennies and my mom would read the poems to us at bed time. Her mother did the same for here and I in turn, read the poems to my own daughter. I, of course have my favorites, and one of them is the one above. They are all so full of childhood wonder and it is a delightful collection.