When I was a kid, we owned a lot of poetry books. This was the only one that spoke to me, that made me see poems as an art form. Our copy was lost in a move, and for years I could only remember bits and pieces - the painting of the tree for October Paint Pots, a scrap about train windows at night. I was well into my twenties before I again stumbled across 'The fog comes on little cat feet' and was able to find this book of poems again. It still speaks to me - the silliest of Arithmetic, the soft ache of loss in Buffalo Dusk.