A Two-Year-Old Poet

Aside from two Detroit Tiger hats, the only other major league baseball hat I own is a St. Louis Cardinals hat. It was a gift from the in-laws two years ago when a vacation took them through St. Louis. It’s a nice hat but I’ve only worn it a handful of times because, well, I’m a Tiger fan. But after the Tiger’s disappointing, error-filled performance in the World Series this last week, it’s hard to wear any of my Tiger hats in public again. I might just have to jump on the Cardinal’s bandwagon to fit in with the sea of red out there. ~sighs~


Aidan loves having Marathon Girl and I read to him. However, his two year old brain has developed a strange love for poetry. And we’re not talking nursery rhymes. He enjoys major poets and some of their best known works. Poems that Aidan particularly likes having read to him are Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken, Mary Oliver’s Maybe, Phillip Booth’s First Lesson, Rudyard Kipling’s If, Alison Funk’s The Moons of Uranus and Stephen Crane’s God Lay Dead in Heaven.

I’m not complaining. I think it’s wonderful he enjoys these. But he really floored me and Marathon Girl last week when he started repeating most of Edna St.Vincent Millay’s famous poem First Fig for no apparent reason. He going to be a construction worker for Halloween but I’m wondering if a tweed jacket and bow tie wouldn’t be a better fit. I think a two-year-old poet would scare just about anyone.