A Book to Write in
He bought me books, discretely bound
To express the words that came.
I wrote on envelopes I found,
Forgot to sign my name.
I looked for little bit and scrap
Of things I wrote before,
Thoughts I could, again, unwrap,
My concealment I'd deplore.
Today, I'm writing in this spiral,
Enjoying how it's bound.
And, to avoid confusion viral,
Put it where it can be found.
So, when I want to edit,
Should corrections come to mind,
This little book gets credit
For the bit of work I find.
©01/19/2012 Carol Morfitt Welch