When I come to a place of books,

my heart craves silence;

the reverence of readers

in search of knowledge, entertainment,

a spark to send thoughts

places they’d never considered.

 

How many dreams have been conceived

in the company of such inspiration.

Simple ideas given hesitant birth,

formed at this font of learning.

 

And whence comes this respect?

My father was a keeper of books,

shepherded them, tended them,

absorbed the core of them

by some arcane form of osmosis.

 

I envied him that opportunity,

his access to the written world,

became bookworm, tried

to surpass him. Even

in his final days he could

surprise me with obscure snippets.

 

Yet when he passed, our contest

consigned to history, I still felt

compelled to scour every last nuance

from the pages of a new book.