Finally, I Answer Properly

To the Fifth Grader in the Back Row:

Since you raised your hand and asked me to name my favorite book,
I have been wrought with guilt.
"Oh!  I don't know,"
I said, like a faithless person
who claims to read her book of holy writ
but can't name a character, a verse, a battle of will or story of deliverance.

I've been thinking, fifth grader.
When I step into the shower, I ask myself--
as I walk down curving path under apple trees,
when I stare out the car window at trees flicking by,
when I open the covers of a novel late at night--

I am asking myself:
What is my favorite book?

Right now, it is Willa Cather's wide grassy land,
like seas, that undulate forever at my Antonia's feet.
Yesterday, it was a white-pawed cat
clambering into shadowed eaves.
Tomorrow, who knows?  Perhaps I will return
to Scout, bumbling in the dark in her clumsy, paper-mache ham;
or perhaps I will stare into the eyes of swaying cobra,
brave me, brave me, RikiTikiTavi.
Who knows?

As for stories--

I read those in crowded rooms,
on buses, on streets swept clean
and bare but for one light in a window.

And just today,
leaning down to smell the neighbor's rose,
I noticed a bee tucked deeply into the yellow petals,
wings wet, black fur shimmering.
I thought, this is my favorite story right now,
how the bee lost himself in this rose,
drowned in dew.

What about you?

another story: this perfect nest we found at the park, woven at the foot of a huge stone;
three perfect eggs inside.