I inhale. There is nothing
so delicious as a new book.
Dusty or pristine, borrowed or bought,
its weight, its cover, the layer by layer
discovery of what’s inside,
the definitive turn of a page
– or a phrase – I inhale.
Sharply. Slowly. Laughingly. Silently. Loudly.
Eagerly: There is nothing so delicious as a book.
* * * * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days