The Library
A Poem On Literate Legacy
I awoke early this morning fresh from a dream of a great and magical bookshop, whose tiers and columns of beautiful books grew over each night producing rare and wonderful creations in stack after delightful stack.
I was walking with my father and my eldest son as we each pored over the wonders before us. My father climbed a ladder to look at fantastic books, dense with an unknown calligraphy. David, my son, was overwhelmed by the choices set before him, not knowing which to choose, where to begin.
I promised him that we would find that certain four or five books that would inspire and inform his own writing.
It occurred to me that we three generations were but a part of a long unbroken line of writers and readers who served the mysterious purposes of this library of the spirit.
Fresh columns of ethereal words
Arise here every night,
Each set to be a-scaled
In the early morning light,
By pilgrim saints whose passions stir,
Whose blood and heart stay warm
While seeking typeset cavern’s space,
Their shelter from the storm,
’Til drawn aloft by rope and will
And clinging to each ledge
We reached the icy summits
And gazed out from their edge
