(An old drawing of Milt Morgan, the magical-me portrait)
The book is opened to page one…
A boy is born in a blizzard…
Page two reveals the night that he…
Stayed up for first steps on the moon…
And page three sees the girl he loved…
Though he never spoke the real word…
Page four ends with high school’s pain…
Loneliness and some self loathing…
Page five reveals in college days…
That one can achieve anything…
But page six admits the truth that…
One will always be a young child…
And page seven tells the sad tale…
Of teachers in the monkey house…
Page eight is twenty years and more…
In middle school, the wonder years…
Page nine is learning competence…
Is only in your mind and heart…
Page ten is learning all again…
And digging toward the hidden light…
Page eleven reeks of hard work…
And making lives grow solidly…
Page twelve makes doubts seem useless dross…
And faith in men truly returns…
And page thirteen brings some sorrow…
For endings inevitable…
And so I do not turn the page…
For every book must somehow end…
And I am not yet finished here…
There’s so much more to see and read.
(Me as I was about to start teaching in South Texas)
Catch a Falling Star 
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