The Widow Wyile’s house
has more than good looks
its very walls are made
of books,
or so it seems inside
its broad blue covers
that form the roof where high
upon that sky ringed spine
the Widow Wyile casts about
for frivolous flourishes
silly rhymes when the
weather is fine
other days she daringly
stretches out supine
to admire the skies
and its aviators
flapping with purpose
soaring divine
at—you guessed it—
a quarter to nine