So many books, so many words inside –
you’d think common sense would deny selection;
yet, here all arranged for that very purpose,
browsing, in fact, the means to sharpen focus,
the scanning eye to the price marked - that done,
to weigh the book in simple scales - decide.
Nevertheless, a book is nothing but
a moment of meaning, which takes one back to
its first encounter in the title, now
informed in the limitation, is how
we identify anything, track to
its essence, in a flash, the world throughout.
I realised the other day most clearly,
while strolling in the park, the nature of
impressions that yet communicate all
felt, fluidity, unchecked in the thrall,
of motion, limbs and head, sensation of
completion, words unnecessary, really.
Words are devised to communicate feelings
instantly comprehended, so return
to that primal state, whether in the form
of tree or flower, title of book or poem;
the particular escapes our concern
but blends into the fabric of our dealings.