Pages

I was a collection of pages,
yellowed and frail around the edges
broken in places, bent at the corners 
precariously held together 
by a length of twine
saved from my childhood.

I could not call myself a book,
my spine was a strip of old leather
weathered with years of neglect,
my cover bore my name
in faded letters even I could not recognize 
my pages, unglued and jumbled
in haphazard order
after having landed in disarray 
more than once before.

I was a collection of pages,
stories written in the dark of night;
poetry captured by starlight
while floating through dreams;
recipes for Love, never tested,
kept in obscurity  
the mere mention of their ingredients 
considered a blasphemy 

I hid from the sun
afraid of the damage it might cause
to the brittle parchments I had become,
my contents long since labelled 
as insignificant and unattractive,
left in the corner gathering dust 

And this is where I was found,
lifted into the light 
and gently dusted,
each page read like Braille; 
each syllable tasted as it rolled 
on the tip of the tongue;
each word appreciated 
for both the sum of their parts
and the parts of their sum

I was no longer just a collection of pages,
I was a manuscript of value,
my bindings were restored,
my spine reinforced, 
my cover oiled and rubbed with care
to a patina reminiscent of fine leather.

My name became legible again.
and I recognized that
not only was I a book  
but that I was a book worthy
of being read.  



Janet Reid
march 2008





Awarded by Poetic Constellations





Awarded by Poetic Constellations




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Awarded by Muse Mongers Motel