Taking Down a Bookshelf
The authors
blink only when looked at,
they recall for you
a story, perhaps a tale half-read.
One book lifted,
pages fly between thoughts,
a few scrapes of knowledge
peck and preen again.
Phrases return
demanding still to be displayed
though rarely used.
There are mystic scriptures
that hover between
fiction and non-fiction.
I imagine temple beasts
still guarding them.
I overreach,
shake this collected tree of knowledge.
Books fall, some like stone,
some like fluttering birds.
I am ankle deep
in the printed word and its aftermath.
Some will go to the thrift shop,
some to the garage,
a few will stay between bookends
surviving these winds of change.
Today I have time to admire
the dance of sunlight on bare walls,
the transpiring poetry
of blameless space.
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