I pick up a volume I have not touched in years;
Never having done more with it than a cursory riffling
Of pages, smelling ink and paper, putting it back in place
Unmoved and (face it) ignorant of what it holds for me.
Now that I am supposed to be old I have time,
Nothing but time, to revisit things I’ve mostly left undone.
It is a strange thing, this opening of books I’ve owned for years
and shelved to gather dust. I am not who I used to be, neither are you,
author gone twenty years, four years on me at her going.
But the truth is, I didn’t choose this book, something chose it for me:
Half-remembered book, am I ready for you now? I open your pages
And see them for the first time. Peculiar, this thing about poetry,
That no matter how often you encounter what it has to say to you
It says different things with every encounter.
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