As you climb step by step up
the gray, black speckled, granite stairs,
let your left hand brush along
the polished, brass rail that leads upward.
When you reach the broad, double glass doors, turn
your thought from the growling and honks
of the street traffic bound forever south and open
the gift our grandparents, mine and yours, left for us.
Today, don't check out the calendar of events
posted near the check-out desk. Leave for another day
the workings of philosophers, theologians and psychologists
stacked and ordered to the 5th decimal place.
Don't linger too long beside the cradle of fairy tales,
myths and legends where an eight year old,
red-headed girl, splashed with freckles,
sprawls across a gray cushion and reads.
Follow your heart to the well-planted rows
of eternal Valentines tended by the
sexy librarian at the reference desk.
Run your fingers along the textured bindings of their stems
until you find the one marked with your name. There,
for as long as our fine city cares for all its own,
the petals of love, pressed between the pages of a book,
will wait.
Dedicated to Emma
Copyright © 2004-2007 by the authors
