A Trip Back Home (sort of)
Around the corner there is a library full of centuries of words
hanging onto the shelves. Winter encyclopedias, dark maroon, almost
leather, indexed and waiting, full of photographs.
Color photos carefully selected, positioned just exactly on the page, heart and soul of a thing. Maps, Charts, Physics in a nutshell, Rome in a fraction of an inch.
Me in my blue coat feeling like a leftover good-will bargain table, crumpled up and left for last. Watch your posture, young lady. The lady says she likes the hat I choose from the second hand bin. Maybe it will have time for a second coming.
I do not select a book right off, it is a sacred act all right.
Maybe just a small one, maybe I can taste little bit sunny spring carrying a spirit into my upper chest--After all, they say the sap is just below the surface, sticky with life, rich, waiting--
A book! bound with dewy decimals holding its place. The light is on now in this magic space. Oiled wood, piles of golden incandescence An old window, high up. Stairs worn and treaded.
Yes, I take that tiny sacred thing out into the world, with me and home. I have a couch next to some grapes and mandarin oranges settled in a narrow dish. Some tea, dinner along the line, drapes pulled against the chills of evening.
Color photos carefully selected, positioned just exactly on the page, heart and soul of a thing. Maps, Charts, Physics in a nutshell, Rome in a fraction of an inch.
Me in my blue coat feeling like a leftover good-will bargain table, crumpled up and left for last. Watch your posture, young lady. The lady says she likes the hat I choose from the second hand bin. Maybe it will have time for a second coming.
I do not select a book right off, it is a sacred act all right.
Maybe just a small one, maybe I can taste little bit sunny spring carrying a spirit into my upper chest--After all, they say the sap is just below the surface, sticky with life, rich, waiting--
A book! bound with dewy decimals holding its place. The light is on now in this magic space. Oiled wood, piles of golden incandescence An old window, high up. Stairs worn and treaded.
Yes, I take that tiny sacred thing out into the world, with me and home. I have a couch next to some grapes and mandarin oranges settled in a narrow dish. Some tea, dinner along the line, drapes pulled against the chills of evening.
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| Fairplay Colorado, January 2015 |
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