…a husband gave a wife a book of poems.
I love when books have inscriptions, it leaves a tangible piece of someone’s life with the book (even 3/4 of a century after), adds a piece to a story. This inscription is what I found when I opened up a beat-up old book with “A New Anthology of Modern Poetry” printed on the spine, it’s weathered red and water-damaged on the outside, but the pages promise beauty and wonder enough to fill a thousand souls and more. I’ve only read thru the introduction and the first two or three poems. “poetry often communicates when one does not understand it, and even when written in a language which one knows very imperfectly.” I like that.