Bookshelves

In a musty library room

in a friend's old abode,

dark wooden shelves,

floor to ceiling, look like

rows of secrets, willing

to be opened like gates

and doors and windows

and minds. To reach

for one book, clothbound

with no dust jacket, and 

take it from its snug space,

fulfills a desire. For what?

You don't entirely know,

do you? But there it is,

the book, quiet and pliant

in your hands, centuries

of the printing art floating

invisibly behind it. The rest

of the books on all the shelves

and walls look on,

like spectators at a stadium--

but they're the quietest

audience ever. A clock's

bell dings, softly, softly. 

Hans Ostrom 2024