or read and
not remembered to live
or simply
carried with me through
every house
of thought, brick and dream
that I’ve
wandered through – sometimes
in sleep
and sometimes awake, it’s those
books I’ve
pressed flowers in, books that
open to leaves
– once yellow, now brown
with tiny
holes on the edges, flat leaves
thinner
than paper, crisp as the day
I picked
them up, yet holding together
firmly, my
memories of walks with friends
along paths
no more tree-lined; books
that yield
up receipts of lunch dates
from twelve
or fifteen years ago
with loved ones
who drifted away
at places
that now don’t offer food
but "smart
solutions" to remove you
further from your inner garden of being
yes, it’s those books, friend, that
pull me back
to reading, even if such reading
be nothing to
do with words.
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