They are turned on their sides.
A reflection of status maybe?
All worthy, someday?  to find a place…
perpendicular, with those that managed to reach the end.  

This one I found in Portland. Smells of espresso and rain…
This one was a gift. Feelings of guilty neglect linger.  
This one reclaimed from my father’s collection…faded sticky,  
marking his lack of patience with it before he died.

Something so very compelling in the spines and pages.  
The tangibility, the dusty musk… Itchy arms, dare not bring to bed.
They stare out at me -some nights. Sleeping. Behaved.
But there is a mischievousness and power in them.

I will still commit that their words will become mine.
But as I wrestle with the pile, all vying for attention yet again,
I wonder at all of this wood, a veritable bonfire of farewells.
Turning my head sideways, so many of my chapters unread.