The bookcases of one-by-six planed pine All screwed to dark but open basement beams Are how I feel the language of my dreams Twist hidden deep within each antique line.
I rarely read these books and none are fine And no one wants them anymore it seems. Like waters from some minds' now frozen streams They'd flow for someone’s eyes, perhaps for mine.
Sometimes when lost I find a letter there Recalling handwriting from someone dear Suggesting paths forsaken in the past. The words she wrote were reasoned well with care. The details I forgot are once more clear. The present waits then leads me home at last.
Linked to dVerse Poetics where Lillian is hosting with the theme of writing about something in your home that speaks to you and to last weeks’ Meeting the Bar with the sonnet theme.