When You Read to a Child

The pages open like bright hands,  

a child's eyes widen to catch worlds,  

each word rises like bread baking,  

air fills with whispers and wonder.  

You carry them to a window's edge,  

outside, wind mutters secrets, bends,  

trees reveal their ancient conversations,  

the ground hums stories through dirt.  

Some tales wear shadows like cloaks,  

walk tightropes above dark ravines,  

but look—the stars, they flicker, guide,  

even in murky skies, hope lingers.  

A book is a room with no walls,  

each page a door to unknown faces,  

questions bloom louder than answers,  

and the child becomes a compass.