From One Book Lover

When Giving Is All We Have Alberto Ríos , 1952                                               One river gives                                               Its journey to the next. We give because someone gave to us. We give because nobody gave to us. We give because giving has changed us. We give because giving could have changed us. We have been better for it, We have been wounded by it— Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet, Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails. Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too, But we read this book, anyway, over and again: Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand, Mine to yours, yours to mine. You gave me blue and I gave you yellow. Together we are simple green. ...

So, did you read a lot this summer? I know of a few readers who did, and it will earn them a book of their own! One of the most enjoyable parts of the summer reading club is coming up with new books to read. I invited my buds to join the club for summer reading, and two readers took me up on it. Both Karen and Stacy  tantalized me with their amazing reading lists. I think I found a few more tomes to add to my (growing) "to be read" list and was pleased to see an unexpected name among the authors. (Oh, there were more than a few favorites in there, too. I know how to pick them — friends and books.) Karen read the following, for a total of 20 tomes: The Bone Chamber, Robin Burcell Misery, Stephen King Coming Home, Mariah Stewart Desperation, Stephen King Feels Like Family, Sherryl Woods The Sign of the Beaver, Elizabeth George Spear Escape from Andersonville, Gene Hackman and Daniel Lenihan The MacGregors-Alan Grant, Nora Roberts The Walking Dead:Rise of the ...

November This is the treacherous month when autumn days With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts. Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts, The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays Will idly shine upon and slowly melt, Too late to bid the violet live again. The treachery, at last, too late, is plain; Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt. What joy sufficient hath November felt? What profit from the violet’s day of pain? - Helen Hunt Jackson courtesy poets.org

On All Hallow's Eve, I gave this poem to every trick-or-treater who came to my door, as well as every one who walked within bounding distance of me. Requiescat         Tread lightly, she is near         Under the snow,         Speak gently, she can hear         The daisies grow.                  All her bright golden hair         Tarnished with rust,         She that was young and fair         Fallen to dust.                  Lily-like, white as snow,         She hardly knew         She was a woman, so...