I’m acutely aware of how years seem to slip through my fingers like grains of sand. Do you ever feel that way? The fragility of life, and how I spend my precious hours, is never far from my awareness.  

Today, in a contemplative frame of mind, I’d like to share a piece of poetry. 
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The Library

ceiling fans hum noisily, high above weighty,
sunlit circles of crimson and
amber stained glass
suspended in front of framed windows
huddled between towering shelves
packed with novels and essays and poetry

musty leather tomes lined up like soldiers
resembling prized bull-fighting trophies
accompanying words penned by
Virginia, William, Jane, Leo, Emily;
intimate friends, like so many others
here now, but only in spirit

decade-old cabernet corks
crowd together in the lidded, antique jar
that attempts to compete with
a boisterous sign demanding
the library owner must
live well, laugh often, and love much

amongst the dozens of shelves,
a watercolor lighthouse
hangs in a place of honor
near a flawless, hand-carved cardinal
that shares space with other treasures,
priceless gifts of being cherished

autographs and intricate drawings
carved into the scarred yet rescued
antique, college science lab table
are now covered with pristine journals and
fountain pens that beg to have a voice
like flags ceremoniously unfurled

history and prose and emotions
mesh seamlessly together;
a tranquilizing dance in this
sacred space of wisdom and exploration, as
emotional words fly onto pristine pages while
the wayfarer continues the pilgrimage
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