Covert Novelist

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A look of seriousness upon her face

Caused him to step back a pace

What could have caused that look

He wondered peering at her book

It was but a nursery rhyme and stories told

From yesteryear and the days of old

What whimsy had caught her in its grasp

That had her hands so tightly clasped

She looked upon my face and smiled

It’s nothing dear, old stories compiled

From years ago that certainly were not sweet

Intended to beguile, they struck me as offbeat

We’ll make our own to hum to our unborn child

Something appropriately sweet  and mild

Full of laughter music and lighthearted song

To offset all the seriousness abundant and strong







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