Poem: Old Books

The spine is weathered
Broken by untold hands 
Opening and closing it
Well loved or well traveled
Before it found its way here
Open in my lap filled with words
Containing the original story
Though giving nothing up
About its life from printer
From hand to hand to me
Except for a few clues
Of a dried flower
An ex libris pressed initials
Notes in an unknown hand
Each having its own story
The book lies open silent
Giving nothing away
While taking my own memories
To mingle with the others

Copyright © 2021 TJS Sherman All rights reserved.

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