I stole a book or two in my time—
from a room where it bided unread winter and winter
came Williams, came that greeny asphodel;
unknown then to me in my darkness,
how it bloomed when I brought it out,
modestly, continuously,
met me long years away with waves
of renewed waking, a kind of grace,
despite I, never the true owner,
could bear it only poorly.

Harold Ackerman retired from teaching English and ESOL to concentrate on writing and making photographic art.  He has poetry at The Museum of Poetry and photography at Brushfire Literature and Arts and has published a collection of poems and photos, February 2.

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