So here’s my special hoard of books.
I savor them like twenty cooks.
It’s neat to read the words that hook some slippery truth at last.
The pages in their density,
Aligned and sewn so carefully,
Invite a thumb to come release the rustle that’s within.
I’ve read them often, I confess,
But I’m not full, and they’re not less;
I pick the ones I like the best, like flowers from the past.
It’s not their rareness, nor their dates,
Nor yet their cost that fascinates:
It’s just that they’ve become my mates through times both thick and thin.