Pages unturned…

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
shafts of light crisscross and dust dances
in the show of rhythmed, unhurried air,
in perfect quiet only small sounds heard,
a turning page with tender respect,
signs of satisfaction or stifled laughs,
but in the shadowy recess of the isle,
before a skewed chair left untidy
it an open tome, heavy and solemn,
resting readerless with tear-stained pages,
unturned.

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What is to be found in books…

In Books

On a bright, fresh Saturday morning
an old man walked from
the library with a large book of some subject
open before him, reading closely
it seems, stepping carefully along the walk
so much like every one of my children,
fascinated and eager for the stacks,
little fingers tracing the spines of
everything they reach, starting book
after book, story after story, then
begging to know how many
they were allowed to borrow, how many
worlds could be opened in their hands,
emerging from their libraries clutching tomes
with one open before each, reading closely,
never stumbling with a peripheral view
that just knew the way even while
occupied with a realm becoming theirs,
toward home and each
would migrate to a spot predetermined
to finish each too quickly, too passionately,
even our one who could never sit still
would perch unmoved for hours
and still does, having to be beckoned
back to now for mundane things
like food and sleep, and this is how I
learned to read, not in letters and words
and sentences, but in lives and worlds and
in books that were borrowed.