Those Who Love Books


those who love books understand
that all pages are sacred
that words are important
that the mind can form images
	more precious than diamond
	more hideous than burnt flesh

those who love books understand
how to live a lifetime in an hour
how to save a kingdom
what it must be to love forever

only if you have quested into Mordor with Frodo and Sam
	guarding the One Ring like a prayer
only if you have wandered Eponine's Paris
	longing for one word from Marius
only if you have sailed with Nemo
	or Ahab
	or Odysseus
		and cried for the truth
		hunted the whale
		tasted Circe's honeyed lips
only then can you know

those who love books understand
that time travel is as simple
	as turning the first page
that turning the last page
	is like losing a friend
that returning again to that moment, that feeling
	means only going to the shelf once more

those who love books understand
the thrill of seeing a beloved name on a cover
knowing there is no price but that must be paid
to steal inside the world another time

those who love books understand
the feel and smell of old paper
the sound of the spine as it sighs
	yielding its maidenhead to a first lover

every woman is beautiful when she reads
every man strong and noble
every love is everlasting
every death can be undone with a kiss

those who love books understand
the need to own the words
the desire to rise at two am
	hunting for a familiar passage
the satisfaction of rediscovering it

with each book you lend to someone new
a piece of your soul has gone wandering
with trembling hands, you press it into the grasp
	of someone trusted, beloved
when it returns to you read it has doubled in value
for it is now a joy shared

he loved books
his house was filled with shelves
hardback, paperback, first edition, imported, used
fantastic dreams, impossible voyages
scientific marvels, harsh unrealities
these were his world
the starship of his mind adrift in countless worlds

he understood that magic was truth
science merely an excuse to explain what we already knew
everything possible did exist somewhere
	even if we could not see them
unicorns, gryphons, dragons of pink and blue and paisley

he knew the joy of quietness
the shuddering sound of a page turning
	a new joy revealed to the inner senses
his fingers danced upon every cover
coaxing their mysteries into sunlight

in the end there was no sunlight
only shadows and closed curtains
and silent rows of old friends
	waiting for the final breath of day
	before the new morning

they sold his books

in boxes, crates, brown taped and markered
they loaded the pieces of his soul
the auditors came, passed judgement over a lifetime
	a few dollars per box
the used book store, home to unwanted memories,
took them in, separated them
	scattered them to the winds

now I know he is gone

or

a picture, a crystal fragment of a time that could be:
a teenager wanders through the store
uncertain of her life her future what she wants and needs
sees the cover, picks up just one book

her world is momentarily opened to include
a disk upon the backs of elephants
	riding a turtle through time
a hero upon a blue unicorn
a git in a bathrobe riding through space in a shoe
she opens herself to newnesses beyond imagination

(a boy becomes eternal friends with David Eddings)
(Steven Brust is given as a gift)
(a child learns the story of Saint Camber)

like a keeper of birds he kept them close to him
the birds have flown in a thousand directions
each a part of him
and so he lives on in a thousand ways
a thousand lovers of books
will look at the imprint upon the page
and wonder, who was he that loved this book so much?

the last page turns

I wonder if he saw the sun
those last few days
I wonder if he knew that we
will remember him each time
	the page turns to reveal a new friend
	knowing it will be a reflection of his face
	smiling back

the story ends
not happily, but ever after
the book closes

11/20/97