I.
The book is on its pages
Face down
With a crackling spine.

II.
On a waiting room bench,
Sits the child's father,
Staring at an open book.

III.
Between the chapters
Are leave
And petals
Preserved for winter days.

IV.
A child
Is not
A poet
Nor a writer,
But a child can love a book.

V.
Wild, unspeakable thoughts torment his mind.
He only trusts the book to keep his secrets.

VI.
On Tuesday afternoon
The widow summits
The library steps
In search of a different story.
She will return next Tuesday.

VII.
A mother shares a book
With her daughter snug under the covers.
She knows her knight will defeat the dragon,
But still holds her breath.

VIII.
I read the opening lines
Penned carefully to make
The best first impression.
How many others have pondered these same words?

IX.
Rows of shelves of knotted oak
Willingly bear
Their burden of books.

X.
Why are chicken noodle soup
And a good book
The best remedies I know?

XI.
You are drawn to the book
With golden lettering,
And prepare to enter a new world

XII.
With each cackling flame another book dies.
Now there is nothing but ashes and memory;

XIII.
Yellowed pages
Cloaked in leather
And perfumed with ink.