Ode to a Book

a poem

Henri Matisse, public domain

I want to hold you in my hands,
and appreciate the gloss
of your bold slipcover.

I see the writer’s name
is smaller than the title,
I like to think
that’s out of humility
and not because
she hasn’t made it yet.

I flip to the back to read the blurbs,
it’s nice to know you are
so highly recommended.

When I open you up, I find
the writer’s
black-and-white photo
on the inner jacket.

The writer looks so deep
in thought,
I wonder about what?

Now, I turn the pages
and feel the crispness
of weighty, acid-free paper.

I run my hands along
ink-impressed words
as I read the lines that came
from somewhere deep
inside the writer’s soul.

I want to feel
the writer’s days and nights,
every single rewrite
and how she beat herself up…