There is just something about a book;
the way the leather cover feels in my hands,
the smell of well thumbed pages,
the story reread endlessly.
My love is a book, you see.
His hands, worn and calloused--the years are read
in those strong fingers.
Weathered, leathery on the outside
his cover bespeaks of journeys and music,
of laughter and tears.
Title page--I share his name
and he is dedicated to me.
he is a treasure trove of tales oft told,
words never changing one time to the next and yet
each reading gives new nuance to the past.
His spine is cracked and there are a few
pages loosened from his binding
but the words are ever there, memorized,
read and reread, fingers running along the lines
until the print fades from fingertip erosion.
In the morning light
I read of his day, of his dreams.
I peruse chapters of memorable quotes
and laugh as I read aloud his antics.
I hear the music drumming in my soul and the book
is alive and breathing
as all good books should, indeed, be.
No best seller this, more the first edition of a classic,
worn, well read, not kept high
on some dusty shelf but read daily
over coffee, on the kitchen counter
of our lives or near where
the fire blazes on our heart-h.
No reader, he, prefers to hear the stories
read out loud in time to the drumbeats that propel him
or whispered in the papered leaves in the forest.
Caressing an old book, the all of it, the whole
full of anticipation; the greeting of an old friend.
At night I lie down beside him
and as he drifts off, I read of love and tenderness,
soothe wrinkled pages of his day,
slip in a lovemark at a favored passage
and fall sleep, my book in hand, to dream of heroes.