Ode to the Library
Imagine the ideas that float around,
some sticking to the stacks like kites
caught in power lines. Some gummy
on the shelves after decades of disuse.
Some so juicy you could scrape them
into a blender for a smoothie to sell
at the fair near the merry-go-round.
Or the hands that once touched spines,
not worried about germs, just feeling
how the cover goes slick or the fabric,
cracked open with age or carelessness,
whether the title is faded or embossed,
gilt or guilt, anticipating usefulness.
Tricia Knoll misses her small library in Williston, Vermont during these days of closure and isolation.
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