August 13, 2022, cont.

The Library

1.
The purge always feels good:
letting go of the past,
culling what I know I’ll never peruse,
passing on what might be useful.
It's strenuous –
but it opens up the chest
like a cold run uphill.

Then there's the satisfaction 
of arresting chaos and imposing order:
of dust removed from corners
that never see a broom;
of rediscovering the still unread and
the sentimental favorites;
of honing the rambling collect.

My husband says we need more room,
but in this instance I say no --
Constriction serves a purpose,
a necessary reckoning. 

Now there's space for 
the absolute divinity of anticipation -- 
and maybe a few more books.

2.
Alcoholics speak of having a God-sized hole
in which they drown from drink.
We all carry one, whether realized or not.
Addictive buying of books cannot fill mine.

But I can pack the void with words -- 
both read and inspired --
that channel and convey truths
more powerful than my own will,
more beautiful than mere witness,
more complex than my creator's conscience, 
more near than my own cells. 

Like a crescent moon awaiting notice 
on a warm summer evening; 
like tiny delicate blooms flowering 
above a cold timberline;
like the pregnant doe ambling toward me
without fear in her eyes.

But words are ultimately a means – 
not the ends themselves – not the
strong protective arms drawing me close 
in the dark restless sea of 3 AM.