Closing the book, I find I have left my head <br />inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open <br />their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound, <br />words adjusting themselves to their meaning. <br />Long passages open at successive pages. An echo, <br />continuous from the title onward, hums <br />behind me. From in here, the world looms, <br />a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences <br />carved out when an author traveled and a reader <br />kept the way open. When this book ends <br />I will pull it inside-out like a sock <br />and throw it back in the library. But the rumor <br />of it will haunt all that follows in my life. <br />A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-afternoon-in-the-stacks/
