Each book is a journey, enticing

a turn of the page if there is time,

yet I fear the sands are shifting

toward a hurried stance, slicing

through a multitude of rhymes

and imaginations, only lifting

a preconceived thought or two

from the offerings of the modest

pages, hoping to inspire a thought

unimagined, before an effort to

reach for a serendipitous guest

to the brain’s changing plot.

In the shadow created by the bristles

of the sun, prepared to dip into

the waiting tray of fluid words,

to paint, at the edge of the thistle,

a scene of archaic adroitness through

each touch timed to the tune of the birds,

a sincerity stands still solemn awaiting an

adept and gentle hand to guide the wind

in a new grand symphonic gesture, aimed

at a landscape covered in forgetful sand,

thirsty for the surprising genorosity pinned

against a stark scrim still wild and untamed.

The infantile hue, now gracing

the surface of your mind, firmly

yet subtly, will color your views,

perhap subconsciously, racing

through the back of your menagerie

of experience, colored with what you

do and what you say, yet now

expanded if albeit slightly

by a prosopopoeial voice

calling out amidst the howl

of waiting books arranged neatly

that forever influences your choice.