Just waiting to be found…

This is a room in which all of life fits

soaring arches of stone unearthed and shaped,

draped in heavy, old wood, dark with age

from the Garden of Eden but untouched,

with all of everything bound and shelved,

rows and rows in some divine order

not worth arguing over, only to enjoy,

spaces for reading, seats at tables,

paper but only pencils for taking notes

of things that will fade just beyond remembered

and shafts of light crisscross, dust dances

in the show of rhythmed, unhurried air,

in perfect quiet only interrupted by,

a turning page with tender respect,

signs of satisfaction or stifled laughs,

and just there, in the shadowy recess

of a space of an isle, before a skewed chair

left untidy rests an open tome,

heavy and column, readerless with

everything once sought desperately

now just waiting to be found.