She Walks Among Books As If They Are Flowers
She walks among books as if they are flowers –
Picking the dust from their parched leaves
like the busy bumblebee seeking for pollen.
Breathless – She caress the patchy pages
to feel their scent – her favored perfume,
and the texture of their numbered petals.
She hears the song – The Silence- with glee,
evading the moonlight in her daily course –
No bird sings in her hallowed garden.
No poets praise her unchanging beauty –
but all poems she takes to herself,
reigning lonely and terrible in her Helicon.
She is never lost but she never leaves –
Nor greets any visitor with her pale hello,
absently wandering near her chilly stroke.
The seedbed is sterile, yet she still rejoices –
Winter never leaves, Winter never arrives,
her flowers still colorful as they never were.
She dances – her feet barely touch the ground,
serene –never closing her eyes – not once,
her fortune clasped closely to her still chest.
As a confined moth wriggling her wings in a fray
- restless – she unfolds her arms and gazes
mirrors incapable to reflect her own pale face.
She walks among books as if they are flowers –
Flipping their pages without rest, without break,
in deadly splendor after every lonely midnight.
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