she lives the hush with sober devotion,
it is her world, this world of silence
in this world so filled with words, ten million words
sitting silent on the aging pages
of thoughts scribed so long ago.
she walks among the rows,
the well-ordered rows in their designated places,
like monks robed in cloth of grey and brown
waiting in contemplative prayer,
each waiting in their pew
in such patient, patient prayer holding ancient parchments
in this sacred scriptorium,
this hallowed hall of scholars, waiting to be read.
she passes by in lady-like decorum,
gracefully, so properly,
a whispered shush, a wisp of smile,
then she continues on,
as she always does,
day after day,
book after book,
which everyone i do return,
some on time, some quite late,
she cautions me,
i vow to do my penance and repent,
but then she asks,
in her most softly spoken mercy,
“have you something to checkout?”
“i do”, i always do,
i always do,
so that tomorrow i might return,
to hear the echo of her steps
as she walks in all her proper elegance
and shares one moment’s glance
as i sit quite solemnly
in this silent, sacred space.
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