Poem-a-day in April!

This little book next to me
This cast-off tome
With it's curled
Yellow pages
Rough along the edges,
Begs me to
Pick it up.
To hold it,
To cradle it,
To flip through the pages.

The soft sound of pages turning,
And it Smells like my childhood
Not quite dusty
But rich
And full of memories.

Even as I read silently
My lips move,
Because that is what you do.
The words of Robert Frost
Hang there - 
In the air.
And they make me pause
Pause and wonder
At the beauty
Of this little book
With its dusty pages
And childhood smell.