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.
Poetry, Short Prose and Walking 