I know very few
books
who lay
with their covers
w i d e open,
exposing their words
to all the world;
I, certainly,
am not
one of them.
I sit
inconspicuous
on the shelf,
waiting
for the right hand
to draw me
curiously
out from my quiet
nestled life.
The cover
is a bit stiff,
but opens
nonetheless –
a few pages
may stick
together,
but a gentle
finger
may guide them
apart
without harm,
and discover
the words
within.
I do not lie about
foolishly,
for any common man
to glimpse and
gawk at
as he pleases;
I am not
sought after,
nor handled
by many –
for I am
rare,
a single printing,
only to be found
accidentally
as one peruses
other bindings.
I am written
for only
one
man –
only he
may read me,
cover to cover,
and comprehend me,
understand me.
It is for him
I sit,
silently,
on this dusty shelf.
For him.

TMK 10aug2007