Ode to Books

May 18, 2010
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Lined neatly on the shelf,
a patchwork of covers.
The fibrous pages between my fingers;
not the dismembered corpse of a tree,
but the birth of what imagination conceived.
Footprints of the muse crisp on paper,
ideas woven among the lines;
read the language,
a transport to scene,
the only way to read a mind.

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