Library doors open in an up draft of promise.
I saunter past screens of computer mayhem
to book shelves of comforting distraction
of liberated reading.
Words rattling on pages of saucy fiction
or on the white edges of mystery.
Perhaps the poised intimacy of Austen's novels
or hard packed history suits me?
Select (possibly) the measured merit of Poetry
Or a Shakespeare\Dickens' volume that lifts
the veneer of living and invites me into
a ruined world.
Pages that seem to turn themselves
in my quest for meaning.
To read Whitman in seclusion for fear of being
ridiculed at home.
Or to seek a narrative arc of oddities, of what's unfamiliar
taking me in a different direction
percolating like coffee brewing
to discover the ravaged past as a
variation on what's present.
Book stacks that ooze the richness of culture,
unwrapping what's striking.
My private universe
a welcomed exploration
like a bird uncaged
in freed solitude
in the quiet of spaces.
Poem revised October 20th, 2020
Copyright © Brian Sambourne | Year Posted 2020
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