Sitting still, unafraid, and spoiling the game of
time, the words lay,
lounged, paper back lined and breathing.
I count the curled corners of pages turned,
as Fall turns leaves, writhing into Winter, and another
into the pile.
I easily forget the words written, winged from the writers
woes, stamped for a lifetime on the pages I read;
but the soul of it stays in mind, whispers, guiding my
thoughts and busy fingers.
There's Books in the corner and thoughts in the air,
reading is the easy part, the hard is to care.