An excess of books in the room,
the heft of words, tooth of paper thirsty for ink.
Each one has a spine and a message.
Someone said yes, let's print it,
and someone cut paper. Other hands
made a cover, like a door with no lock,
a rectangle where words party or complain,
lie, or collude. I cannot discard a book,
be it friend or foe but buy and borrow more,
not this one, not that--its heft. Turning a page
I look for answers, for comfort, for laughter,
search for wisdom or kind words to tell me
where I go wrong and show me the way home.