You grew into yourself
knowing little about life
except through books.
Each leaf-vein, snake-skin, thumbprint
wrought second hand-
experience shaped forever, tacked
together, then tucked
into the bodice of your heart.
So many words helped you to grieve
or offered balm when all seemed undone.
See how you're there already,
soothed by the glimmer of burnished gold,
the incense swinging in medieval
vaults; no safer place to go
when the light grows darker, but
back to the dense and thoughtful page.
Time is a twister, throws up
days when life seems skewed.
Again you reach out, search
for meaning to centre your world-
always, a book at hand.