White-mare

Last year I began writing a series of poems about writers.  And, with April being National Poetry month, I thought I'd punch a few more verses in this blog.  Here's one about essayist and children's author E.B. White . . . who worked with Harold Ross at The New Yorker and alongside James Thurber, another humorist luminary.





E.B. White

Not every writer could exist
Primarily as an essayist
But as New Yorker personnel
You really pulled it off quite well.

And as a writer, in the middle,
You spun Charlotte then Stewart Little.
While upstate farming gave you peace
We hoped for others much like these.

You wrote the light in the mundane
And paused in beauty to explain
A leaf, a lake, a fishing jig--
And lessons surmised from a pig.