Morning In The Library

You sit quietly now in the house of books, A fortress of words and wisdom built around you. It’s here that you are happy, content, stressed out, sad, wondering, seeking, seeking, seeking... answers. Turning pages eating words—swallowing them so they may remain within you forever. You pick up your head, admire the soft green glow of the bankers lamp on your table, remove your glasses, rub your eyes until you see spots, then open again to watch golden light pouring in through a window, illuminating specks of dust, skin— spirits of the leathered ones, the worn ones, the aged parchment and torn ones, sitting on their wooden shelves, waiting to be eaten, seen. The librarian brews her coffee. Wafts of caramel from her sweetened creamer fills the air, gusts of wind from open doors as books enter and leave. The perfume of worn wood and carpet, brassy handles and yellowed rows of open and shut doors of card catalogues, something like saffron and smoke, something like time— something like the warmth and magic of a library. Caramel, sage, cedar, saffron, leather, musk, and sunshine.