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The Aroma of Books

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Wisps of unsung possibility
Infinite palpability.
Thumbprints sidled against
Well-worn creases,
Pages turned downward in
Remembrance.
Fingers soothed against
Flaking covers,
Speckled pixilation in
Syncopation.
An image,
Blotched script,
The space between the lines.
Paper, unassuming,
A purposeful blank,
A hard-working emptiness.
Its matted skin
And whimsy pallor
Yielding beneath eager
Hungered eyes.
Ready to be interrupted
And shut
In gratified silence.
Printed with history,
Unmarred thoughts
And voices
And scents.
It speaks, whispers
Of ages long past,
Of now these great loves,
Of emotions cresting, nearing,
Lingering with the promise
Of a good story.



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