December, Sunday afternoon
or
I am a minor work but this I do not mind
For consider that I share my fabric with shirts that once shielded
Bodies from the chill and the burn, billowed and soaked up sweat
And bed linens that nestled dreams and loves, with time tearing like all things
Growing ragged. Shredded, pounded, soaked and dried. Made anew.
Consider the shoots and seeds, the flax and hemp straining skyward
The cotton sailed across the sea, the rain, the wind, the sun, the camels
That carried the gum that bound together the oak gall with the iron salt
That bit dark words onto paper and transported meaning into me.
Consider my nature, my materials drawn together, my characters.
The ships, the shops, the leaden letters deftly pulled from stained trays
One by one cradled in frames of wood. Composed. Smothered in black.
The weight, screwing down, impressing ideas. A will to reach out.
Consider me lucky, as my minor author did, to have been printed at all.
And bought, and thought worthy enough for someone to have me attired,
My edges trimmed, my frailty bound. Consider the grasses that nourished
The beast that lent me its skin. The beaten gold finely tooled into it.
Consider my constant burnishing, my body rubbing against tables, shelves,
Crates, cardboard boxes. I have waited in bookshops. Been sold alone
And in bulk, in both trifling and renowned company. Bought, borrowed,
Misplaced, lost, once stolen. More than once junked but gently rescued.
I have picked up the smells of smoke and mildew. I have outlived most
Of my owners, more than a few of whom passed without having ever read
Me, leafed me, much considered me. Many have thought more highly
Of my binding than my core. I cannot blame them, for I am a minor work.
Still, on the whole I have been lucky. I have been spared house fires,
Leaks and floods. I have never encountered the slobbering jaw
Of an overexcited hound. Though I have grown a little foxed
Here and there, the red rot has not yet set in. I still have all my pages.
Yes indeed I am lucky, for here I endure, comfortably cradled with relatives,
Lovingly set among familiar types in the frame of this oaken cabinet,
Itself a distant cousin with whom, through my ink, I share roots.
I am a minor work but I do not mind, for mine is an extraordinary family.
Odds and Lens 
December, Sunday afternoon
or
I am a minor work but this I do not mind
For consider that I share my fabric with shirts that once shielded
Bodies from the chill and the burn, billowed and soaked up sweat
And bed linens that nestled dreams and loves, with time tearing like all things
Growing ragged. Shredded, pounded, soaked and dried. Made anew.
Consider the shoots and seeds, the flax and hemp straining skyward
The cotton sailed across the sea, the rain, the wind, the sun, the camels
That carried the gum that bound together the oak gall with the iron salt
That bit dark words onto paper and transported meaning into me.
Consider my nature, my materials drawn together, my characters.
The ships, the shops, the leaden letters deftly pulled from stained trays
One by one cradled in frames of wood. Composed. Smothered in black.
The weight, screwing down, impressing ideas. A will to reach out.
Consider me lucky, as my minor author did, to have been printed at all.
And bought, and thought worthy enough for someone to have me attired,
My edges trimmed, my frailty bound. Consider the grasses that nourished
The beast that lent me its skin. The beaten gold finely tooled into it.
Consider my constant burnishing, my body rubbing against tables, shelves,
Crates, cardboard boxes. I have waited in bookshops. Been sold alone
And in bulk, in both trifling and renowned company. Bought, borrowed,
Misplaced, lost, once stolen. More than once junked but gently rescued.
I have picked up the smells of smoke and mildew. I have outlived most
Of my owners, more than a few of whom passed without having ever read
Me, leafed me, much considered me. Many have thought more highly
Of my binding than my core. I cannot blame them, for I am a minor work.
Still, on the whole I have been lucky. I have been spared house fires,
Leaks and floods. I have never encountered the slobbering jaw
Of an overexcited hound. Though I have grown a little foxed
Here and there, the red rot has not yet set in. I still have all my pages.
Yes indeed I am lucky, for here I endure, comfortably cradled with relatives,
Lovingly set among familiar types in the frame of this oaken cabinet,
Itself a distant cousin with whom, through my ink, I share roots.
I am a minor work but I do not mind, for mine is an extraordinary family.
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J’ai pris le raccourci technologique pour dire “j’aime”, mais c’est peu dire. J’adore. Vraiment, merci!
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