sun-warmed puddles and foot-knowledge

I just finished two excellent books.  I've got that feeling we all get when we finish books.  I'm both jazzed up about life, but I can't read more than two sentences of anything else, because I'm still stuck in the worlds of the books I just left.  

Candle Island by Lauren Wolk (Juvenile Fiction)

This book has everything - a mom and daughter sharing a secret (I was clueless right up until the secret was revealed!), an island, orphaned osprey named Gulliver, supporting characters with their own ginormous things going on, a horse named Hog, opera, poetry, painting, a library. You name it, this book has it.

I particularly loved the details and language. When Lucretia and her mom arrive at the island Lucretia checks out the pasture for her horse. She looks for any plants that might make Hog sick, which is something she learned from her grandmother.

Wolk writes this about Lucretia. "I wanted to be alone, in the wildest possible place. That was what I craved. If I was to be by myself, I might as well be the kind of alone that made me glad."

Each time Wolk writes about Gulliver, which is nearly every page, it’s such a treat. His character has more personality than some people I know. There’s no way this bird doesn’t have roots in truth. He’s too real. “He splashed and jostled his way out of my hands until he was sitting in the sun-warmed puddle, clearly content.” Each screech, whistle, and expression is so precious.

I also love how Lucretia and her mom are both painters and super supportive of each other’s artistic processes. Lucretia sees, feels, hears art everywhere. The island is brought to life through Wolk’s descriptions and also how Lucretia experiences the island.

Blade by Blade by Danusha Laméris (Poetry)

When I read the first poem, "Barefoot," I knew this was going to be a zillion star book. I immediately bought a copy and returned my library copy. During my childhood I spent every summer barefoot, only wearing shoes when we went into town. My feet knew our holler better than my eyes or my hands did. Laméris captures this feeling, which is not something I've ever thought too much about. Not until I read Barefoot.

"I'd marvel at how I could feel/ a gopher stir underground from yards away, that slight / rumble in the earth. This was foot-knowledge, heel-knowledge, / knowledge of sole and arch, that domed curve, vaulted nave, / everything that entered there, sanctified, holy."

I thought, how does it get better than this poem? But the glow of Laméris' words continues to light the way.

In "Slither," another poem so closely mirroring my childhood, she writes about lizards, snakes, and other creepy crawlies. She does this brilliant thing with the skink, writing about how she grabs one, and folks, she uses a line break to sever the tail. I am not even kidding here. She's so sneaky in her brilliance. This shines the brightest in her poem, "Alphabet of the Apocalypse," which has so many clever things going on it feels like I'm reading that Highlights magazine, noticing something different every time I read through the poem.

The entire book is a treasure, too short, brilliantly composed, each poem asking the reader to lift the rock of its words.