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