Books

Books are bound pages with words

Words that can make us happy

Ones that can make us cry

But we never understand why

They can lead our heads, hopes, and fantasies

To places far and wide

Off into the distance to the distant past

But they leave our hearts and souls behind

To sit on a cliff of disrespect, but not introspect

Waiting for the call from a far-off place

That may never come 

What to do now?

Lie in hopelessness?

There is but one grand book

We must read with complete openness and clarity

With a heart that is open to accept the consequences

Because in the beginning, it was the word

Words that still echo from the source of all that we know

And that we don’t know

We will never know

We must read between the lines of forgiveness 

Spaces between words that if we reach out and grab them

They will never let go

From the heart of the pages of my book

I see a figure in the act of reading

Then I hear the voice of my mother calling to me 

Reading cryptic of my childhood

Her face is laced with an enegmatic smile

What does that mean mother dearest?

From a chair facing the bed 

Books about horses and dogs conjur up memories in my head

It was my mother again

Then I see myself building bookshelves filled with 

Books about a boy receding into the perilous woods 

Out yonder

Disppearing in the shadows of the light beyond the trees

Blessings of love, soulful touch, and deep intimacy to whomever took the time to read the words from a page of my life