Last night when I couldn’t sleep, I tried counting sheep, St.Matt’s snores, and the minutes until the local bookstores opened and I could go see Send Me a Sign in the wild.
When all that failed, I got up and wrote you a little poem:
It’s the eve of release day, I pace at the sink.
This author’s not sleeping, not even a wink.
The Schmidtlets are dreaming, all snug in their cribs.
And St.Matt is snoring, despite my pokes to his ribs.
I could be sleeping, or blogging, or cleaning, or writing,
Instead, I am pacing, fretting, lip-biting
I’m full of impatience, excitment, panic, and glee
Tomorrow readers meet Gyver, Hil, Ryan, and Mi.
My book! In stores! It’s a dream that’s come true,
Look for the cover with dandelions. It’s pretty! It’s blue!
In swirly-whirly letters it says: SEND ME A SIGN.
And the pages, the story, I wrote them, they’re mine.
Tomorrow I share them, and they become yours,
Which is why I’m up pacing, wearing grooves in my floors.
Fine, I’ll go get in bed, it’s near the end of the night,
Not to sleep, but to read — I love my book light!
… Is it obvious yet that I was never a poet?