by J. L., Sunnyvale
One blows away the dust,
And opens the hard, leather cover.
The smell is of old papyrus,
Evoking clouds of nostalgia.
The pages wrinkle and crackle,
like senile firecrackers.
Warmth is rediscovered at the touch of the page;
Stories that were lost,
Characters that became foreign,
Have again been found.