the book

a book can lay confusion, across the bed, as you
wait for trees to blossom, watching wally walk away
that prince of roamers, sensing summer's wariness
ready to search for duty, for use and purpose
where he'll soon forget

but you've lost yourself, bits and shambles
weakened as the days come forced upon you
it's a bitter thing, to know spring as you do
thrown upon the breaking grasses, greener
than you remember

a book will carry portents, shade the morning
with foreign clouds, let the snows of winter linger
far beyond their days, might offer grace when
the airs are heavy, give you a song for your
vigilance, stony in the window as he slides
through evening fog