Not Repetition Poem by David Taylor

It is a nightly ritual;
there are two piles of books
in his bedroom;
(that room where darkness
never enters) :
Those which have been read
and those which have yet to reveal
the treasure that lies within.

He cannot read yet
but will trace his fingers
across the words
and tell me what they must say
(if the pictures could speak) :
And who am I to say
that what is written
is any more eloquent?

The soft toy dogs,
two of them,
snuggle into his chest
(motionless with anticipation) :
He fidgets turning the pages
already imagining the story unfold
before I dampen the magic
with spoken words.

Now I follow his lead
and say what they should say
(and not what is written) :
For all that is written
is for imagination
and not simply repetition.