I hate having to bring books back to the library.
When I bring a book home and put it on my floor,
It develops roots.
I’ve got trees dwindling
Around my feet,
And this is my world,
In this do I hear chirping birds
Of blue and green
Singing a song that’s ever fresh
And aromatic.
The shelf is more like a graveyard,
Skyscrapers for the lonely.