Versifying

My first (and close-to-last) original poem, as recorded in my journal at age six, was:

Walking in the grass so green,
I think it is the nicest thing,
I think it is a treat,
To feel the grass beneath your feet.

With bolder strokes, subtler allusions, and far greater fidelity to meter--at less than half the age--Edith composed what I think may have been her first poem today at the public library. We had just finished reading a Frances book, which may have been the inspiration, as Frances is forever inventing spontaneous songs. Or maybe it was the influence of my friend Catherine, who wrote Edith a lovely poem called "Izzy Looks Everywhere" for her second birthday, which Edith has rediscovered this week and made a new favorite around our house. In any event, she was in the midst of one of her logorrheic streams of consciousness, when she sang out the four lines below with deliberate cadence:

Fly down the pages,
Is what I now say,
But tenderly stopping,
The schoolbus is stray.

Literary analysts, have at it.