My granddaughter, whose age is
12 months, a fortnight and a day,
just got a cardboard book.
She takes a look at the picture of a cow,
drawn without a love for animals
in too bright colours, hasty lines
that don’t seem to feel right how
real creatures breathe and live.
“Where is the cow?” I ask her anyway.
She looks at me
the way one does
ask such dumb stuff.
She thinks and ponders,
points her finger at the window,
in the direction where the farmlands are.
She wonders much but won’t be fooled.
Some books might be just good enough,
but not as good as others.