The Bibliophile

What can I say about them – Those treasures that have passed through my hands Imparting their wisdom, their sorrow, their joy to me Through the words that were so painstakingly put to paper And then perhaps begrudgingly shared for all the world to see? They have Life to me – Sacred and spanning the course of Time, So that generations to come might share In the wisdom, the sorrow, the knowledge, the ecstasy That someone long ago felt slipping through their fingers. Each book I have been privileged to experience Has given me a gift – Whether it be understanding, or knowledge, or pathos, It has opened my eyes to a new understanding That was not previously privy to me. My hands caress the worn pages sensing the Life within it – What hands have these words passed through; What enlightenment was imparted to the inquisitive soul; What circumstance brought him or her to choose this vestige of knowledge? Where did these words travel? Across a continent? Beside a lingering brook? In a stately library hidden away patiently waiting To be plucked from a shelf and relished in a late night slumber? I cannot know the lives this book has led, Or the countless hands that it has passed through, Or what it has seen, or heard, or said, But I can feel the life within it, Smell it, See its’ well worn pages And know that at least once in its life – It was loved. 04/13/2018 By Jan Pearce