The sweet smells of musky old books rest patiently, they seek refuge among tall mahogany bookcases, at the far back corner of a second hand bookstore. The slow sound of time propagates smoke jacket margins, through fields of fancy pages.
Organic dominos, standing tall and proud, supporting old friends with fraying shoulders, arching backs with faintly embossed titles, there sapient treasures lay dormant until discovered by ardent bookworms.
Thumbing sagely through pages of prose, with the dexterity of a squirrel, trawling aimlessly for verse through thick dense shelves of old growth forest, preening the pages to determine their species.
Bending knees like the bowerbird reaching for the lower branches of beautifully bound birch. Bouffant shelves overflow, books stacked on the floor like paper pylons so high some fall like pine trees.
Pages falling from shelves behind shoulders like maple leaves in autumn, stirring refulgent clouds of dust, exposed by tilted sunlight through cracks in the lime wash walls on a winter afternoon, nostalgia of the antique aroma speaks history reminiscent of my younger years.