Linen stitches lash your spine together
hold your yellowed pages
they feel like mutilated money
ready for shredding
What your words say may be past truth but still hold truth of the past
Did someone share you with their children
their neighbors, themselves
again and again and again?
Or were you retired to a shelf
too musty, dusty, crusty?
A junk dealer saw no value
no fine leather or golden lettering
no collectible bookplate or marbled end-papers
no fore-edge painting or gilded edges
But I ask, are you old, rare, or just used up?
Not rare, but a rare find
So today, I reopen your boards
deliver unto you a rebirth
as words surge forth
reading resuscitates you
Together, old book, we may endure
by Katherine A Porter