The pages of a new book,
still unread, is like a river, tentative at first.
The aged librarian never reads the blurb
but lingers on the foreword
he’s basking with the springs and ponds
where water’s born, and starts his journey downstream.
He follows tributaries until they merge
with places, time and characters
until the river thicken into plots, through lakes
of dialogue and action waterfalls.
When he is reading —
riding river deep through light and darkness
the library is lost for just this book.
At last he reach end, the sea and sighs.
He’s lost, at loss like you might be be when all
you see is open vastness.
That’s when he finds his library again.