On Books

I couldn’t explain how many books, and types of books crowd my home.  They clutter and pile, spilling off the book shelves, stacking on free surfaces as they arise.

They defy classification, though I’ve tried until I’ve tired of it, forced into contentment as they assert their own will.  Surely they have made it plain that they will not be sorted into groupings meant to label their souls in anyway.

Their patience with my faulty reasoning impresses me; always I am slower to learn a lesson than I later feel I should have been.

They hold so much inside of them, setting them into a class could only serve to sell each short.

Their magic fills my heart, and it gladdens me to see them.

My bookshelf holds a new place of more prominence in the room, and it was not before it moved there, its shelves triple-stacked in some places, its surfaces crowded fully in all, and it was not until chance brought it there that I had realized where it belonged so perfectly, displaying its charges.

Books are great creatures of deep wisdom and subtle, humble character; they wait like old women sipping tea to impart their knowledge when their charges finally have realized how greatly they need it, finally are prepared to truly appreciate it.

Their complex flavors beg multitudes of tastings, careful pausing and revisiting, once the palate has cleared, to even begin to place the full range of their ingredients.

I need more books.