Penned this while I waited on the storm last night. Nothing special poetically, but a grand lesson.
I sat among my books last night
and marveled as I mused
at just how much was written there
and how little I’d infused—
of fact and figure, trope and truth,
of wisdom gained at crushing cost,
and as I sat among my books
I mourned my sorry loss.
Biography and history,
poetry and speech,
all within my reach.
Science fiction, reference books,
and essays argued well,
much more than I can tell.
The weight of timely tomes unread,
of volumes veiled in dust,
of treatises untreated to
a proper read and trust
unveiled, it seemed, the authors there,
their thoughtful faces etched with tears,
saying to me, “Take up and read,
dare and do not fear.”
I looked again, then, ‘round the room
and saw it freshly shine
with shelves of treasures at my hand,
glorious … and mine.
Reminders of what I can see
and seek if I’ll but look.
A needed prod from a gracious God
as I sat among my books.