Imagine books alive! Their paper legs
and arms wandering the terrestrial world
in grammars; books extending their syntax
beyond the shelves of limited collections;
books that breathe―articulate vowels
in sequences, feel things, realize love
in the mundane; make active narratives
that bring effectiveness to their writ truth.
The vagrant, youthful book is a crisp white
when I first open her: a sheath of birch
I'd read about in Frost's "Steeple Bush."
The older books have yellowed―in the spine
I smell a wealth of knowing; in the leaves
I hear a warmth of life, a living word.
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