To you, readers, I say

I am no writer -

these words

placed themselves

on my page

to tell a story

To you, writers, I cry

I am no chronicler -

these tales

spun their web

through my mind

to make a memory

To you, poets, I sing

I am no rhymer -

these lines

etched their pattern

on my paper

to form a psalm

To you, who come, I whisper

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Books make visible the writer's soul

Which bleeds its angst by pen:

Spread thin across life's whited bowl  

A thin red stain of madeleine

Books may offer us an author's eye

That ensnares the reader within its brail

Or should writers light the reader's sky

And tear apart the shadowy veil?

Books will hold the writer's thought

And bridge the gap twixt pen and read...

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It starts with that

the feel of paper

between the fingers

the paper worn by touch

the ink a little faded

but the weight of

the incorruptible text

resting on the eye

retaining its worth

for ever

Even before that

there was the heft of it

in the hand

the boards scuffed

the jacket torn

but the perfection of

that binding

resting on the palm

is ...

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