Words on flipped pages…

It’s been raining all week and what better way to spend it, but inventorying all the books I’ve collected over the years. There are lots of surprises found, rooting through the shelves, reconnecting with old friends, apologetically unearthing discarded half-read tomes. There’s a calling between the covers.  Words on flipped pages draw me like a magnet and refuse to let go.  The fresh cracked spines smell of wilting carnations, an abandoned celebration longing to be revived if only I’d sit and stay a while.  I carry one upstairs and slip it beneath my pillow to warm up, dreaming of Elizabeth Barrett Browning: 


Books, books, books!

I found the secret of the garret room

Piled high with cases in my father’s name;

Piled high, packed large–where, creeping in and out

Among the great fossils of my past

Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs

Of a mastadon, I nibbled here and there

At this or that box, pulling through the gap

In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy

The first book First. And how I felt it beat

Under my pillow in the morning’s dark

An hour before the sun would let me read

My books!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning