It’s not that I can read them that endears books to me it’s them – somehow, they read me. Whispering on the shelves, as open is my soul to the book as its covers are in my hands reading my thoughts or transporting me to someplace else
In my desk, paintbrushes pirouette – dancers; and pencils, when they sketch are cheeky fairies, but when they write transform into proud blacksmiths and knights Courting the evasive mystery – my diary, who secretive and shy, never judges, no matter what I write.
And the wicked clock mocks my mortality as I slip, trying to keep up with its relentless tick I could break it if I wanted, with my hands– it smirks to know I’ll never win.
can you hear how shoes talk? they demand wagging their shoe-tongues like restless dogs, take us out for a walk. to be freed from walls that like sentinels loom around me tall blocking a benevolent sky the eager road calls.
there is a something – it might not respond when I curse the bed post for stubbing my toe but it’s there, in these things objects I call mine in rings on my fingers the companionate pen-knife the protective spirit in the dream-catcher’s eye.