Well, love and death have so much in common
with one another.
It's really amazing.
And I'm going to read one more poem about being a child.
And this has, altogether, a different theme
from the first one.
Can you hear me back there?
Yeah?
"The apple-- the apple I held and bit into was for me,
the friend who spoke to me was for me,
my father and mother were for me,
the little girl with brown hair and brown eyes
who looked and smiled shyly and ran away, was for me.
Though I never dared follow her because I
feared she would not understand that she was for me alone.
The bed I slept in was for me, the clothes
I wore were for me, the kindness I
showed a dead bird, one winter, by placing it
in my warm pocket, was for me.
The time I went to the rescue of my sister from a bully,
was to prove myself, for me.
The music on the radio, the books I was beginning to read,
all were for me.
I had hold of a good thing, me.
And I was going to give of my contentment to others, for me.
And when I gave, it was taken with a smile
that I recognized as my own.
When I would be given, I had found that for me,
was everyone else's way.
And I became anxious and suspicious.
I held back a bit when I exchanged postcards, pictures
of baseball players, with a close look at what I
was getting in return.
To make sure that I was getting what I could like.
And when my parents bought me a new pair of gloves,
after I had lost the first pair, I
was sure that for me, was not as pure in feeling
as the first time.
Because I was very sorry that my parents had
to spend an extra dollar to replace my gloves.
And so, when I looked up at the night stars, for me,
remained silent.
And when my grandmother died, for me,
became a little boy sent on an errand of candles
to place at the feet and head of a coffin."