5/25/11
In the Library
I lifted a book and opened the gate
To the world behind black ink –
To soar with Hopkins and a windhover,
Explore lush Brazil with Bishop,
And to fly with words
Over a clean white sky.
And if I turned my head and looked
Over the mountainous shelves of books,
I saw others dribbling their pens
Like basketballs,
Their eyes behind wide glasses –
Who knows what worlds they roam?
And looking back, before the mountain,
I saw old Stevens, old and tired,
Sleeping on a book’s green cover,
Dreaming of trees.
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