I went looking for a poem in the library.
Browsing the shelves lends me a contemplative quality of mind.
I picked up some books by poets I knew and flipped through.
I don't like writing poetry myself - I never know where a line should end. I would carry them all on forever except for peer pressure. So they end up feeling to me very
staccato
and abrupt.
As choppy
as
the
ocean
on
a
windy
day.
One slim volume of poems I picked up caught me
in an unexpected way. It took me a moment to realize:
the book smelled of cigarettes.
It had been in a place with a heavy smoker
and soaked up the smoky scent.
In those few moments, the feel of the book in my hand
and the smell of cigarettes rising from the pages
spoke more to my heart than the words on the pages.
It was a poem I did not expect.
I put the book back on the shelf.
Photo by me.
