remembering Caroline Bray Kennedy

Her lips worked hard, pronouncing every word
Without a sound. Forefinger slowly traced
Each line, and at the end of Revelations,
She’d pause a moment, turn back to creation’s
First lightburst, and set out to read again.

Her Cornish speech took cadence from the style
Of King James verse, and held on to it late,
Her chosen words a softly trickling brook.
Though nowadays my bookshelves creak with weight,
Compared to her, I haven’t read a book.

That Swing: Poems, 2008-2016 That Swing: Poems, 2008-2016