A library seems random
Unless it is your own:
The taken paths to get those books,
Haphazard and unknown.
Enthusiasms come and go,
We swim in different waters;
At times we nearly (almost) drown,
And others, splash like otters —
We find ourselves, or find that we
Are not quite who we thought;
Or lose ourselves, entranced in tales
Exactly as we sought —
In word and story, rhyme and tale,
In tension or in languor,
The thrill of lives we’ll never know,
The taste of love, or anger,
Or learning: these, our lives, or hopes,
Our early dreams begotten,
That stir within us in our sleep,
Like echoes, unforgotten.
But though the senses fade with time,
They don’t need much reminding
To thrill to that familiar type —
The scent of old cracked binding —
For what you’ve read is who you’ve been,
The library assembler —
And it’s still there for you, for me,
If we would just
Remember
