Bookstore

You greet me like a fat tabby cat.

The door jingles and you’re at my side

nuzzling for attention, saying,

come out of the ugly drizzle;

here it is warm.

I wander down your aisles

where books crack and sigh

and open like daisy chain

crowns, each word a petal

in a garland to grace

those willing to listen.

These books smell like pine

trees, muffled walks in the snow,

cinnamon sticks and the first breath

of summer.     

These books have wandered

in pockets, under jackets in rainstorms,

on planes, between friends, lovers,

and enemies, held coffee mugs

and pencil marks, baked under

windowsills, and wrinkled

under tears.

So many journeys in one book,

in one aisle, in one bookstore,

in the world.