Sunlight dishes out its rays in perfectly even portions:
Squares that melt into thick-grained-wood;
The bookshelves in the stacks
Inhale the dust-mote fragrance of shine.
Shelves with curving vertebras,
Heavy with bindings of breathing stories
Held not like a burden,
Not a burden but a poem:
Weight like words at the threshold of speech
Where faded colours of ancient books
Are the endless tongues and lips and teeth.
Innumerable organs, each shelf like lungs,
Are shaping the vowels of Peace,
Tasting the solid consonants of Knowledge,
The pursed kiss of Purpose,
Sighing out the sounds of Hush
And Whisper.
Given breath in pages and ink,
I can hear their voices
Saying thank you to the sunlight
In the solitude and silence
Of the afternoon library.