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Poem

Every day is a page to write a new story
But isn't this life's diary?
Leather aroma
Tightly bound tome
Mint and crisp at birth
Becoming well thumbed and worn
Finally we reach the last page
As we reach our last breath
To be filed away in the Great Library
Shelved with all the others

Do we meekly record our lives?
The next page like the last?
Are the paragraphs important?
The sentences?
The phrases?
The words?
The letters?
The droplets of drying ink?

Maybe it's the paper?

Most days are plain writing paper
Some are parchment
Some are toilet tissue
Bit of cardboard here and there

Or is it what we do with it?

Tear out a day
Let's start with a paper airplane
That was fun

Tear out a few weeks?
Shred and mix water?
Papier maché? 
Make some great volcanoes!

Tear out a season?
Spring, summer, autumn, winter
Doesn't matter
Bit of origami?
Sandpaper swans? 
Foolscap frogs?
Papyrus posies?

Or tear out a lifetime
One day at a time
Score and fold and stick and cut
Small pieces join together
Slowly takes shape
Patience
Build a model
Build a sculpture
Build a masterpiece
Save the last page for the epitaph

At the end the Great Librarian
Takes this finished life
Glasses perch precariously on the point of her nose
Tightly bunned hair now slightly askew
She shakes her head and tuts
"Not another one!"
"We don't have the space!"
"I'll just have to squeeze this between Mozart and Einstein"


(Entry for the "quote response" contest - re-entered for the "Premiere I - OpenPoetry Contest")

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