I hide my photos
in-between volumes
of “Shakespeare.”
From pages of prose
I unearth memories
at a leisurely pace.
Against the leather spine
my nails tap a warning:
Shh!
A library is meant for quiet.
I hide my photos
in-between volumes
of “Shakespeare.”
From pages of prose
I unearth memories
at a leisurely pace.
Against the leather spine
my nails tap a warning:
Shh!
A library is meant for quiet.
In the well, the surface is always calm
But deeper it runs than any lake
And longer, does it journey than any river
As unfathomable as an iceberg
It is never as cold
And nurtures a kind reflection
Of those who draws its waters