After the snowmelt and after the rain,
Out of the ground a hand came
And drew me a picture
And wrote me a poem
And touched my face gently
And pointed me home.
If you read my previous post on the poetic works of Shel Silverstein, then you’ll know that I vowed to read the newest collection, Every Thing On It, “with the same attention to, and admiration for, the surprising level of detail I’m sure it contains.” I don’t think it’s ever been so easy to keep a promise in my life.
