The book said: <br /> <br />I serve you. And <br />as you take from me, I <br />give myself to you; even <br />before you begin <br />to read me. <br /> <br />I note how gently <br />you pick me up from <br />where you laid me down, <br />pausing just before you touch me; and <br />I feel your mind surrendering <br />with relief all other matters which <br />weigh down the mind; as one <br />who sheds his clothes and dives <br />into cool, clear water on a sunny day <br /> <br />and when you begin to read me, I <br />feel your hands, not gripping me but <br />sensing the film of air between <br />your hands and my cover; the lovely <br />detachment of a shared love; you <br />respect me for my outer self as <br />you respect what I have to give <br /> <br />and when you put me down, <br />you put me down so tenderly, <br />first looking for the perfect place <br />to leave me; with, I sense, <br />an inward sigh of satisfaction, gratitude, but which <br />meets the sigh of parting; like <br />the parting pause of lovers <br /> <br />and, like lovers who have grown old together, <br />we put out of mind the passing sigh of <br />yet a different kind; that one of us one day <br />will be – not the first, that’s easy – but <br />the second one to go… that’s <br />the eternal test of love: loss to be measured <br />against gratitude, the final laying down <br />on the altar, of the book of life <br /> <br />all this I appreciate; <br />did you too know this? are we not <br />fortunate in each other, you and I? <br /> <br />said the book.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0234-the-book-to-the-reader/
