Soft, quiet, a blanket of books,
Turn left, left again, up the stairs,
Feet finding the usual route.
Passing comrades, enclosed in words,
To the end of the row, near the window,
The chair, my haven,
Of books.
I don't notice when it grows dark,
Outside,
I don't look up from the knights,
And dragons, and swords, and horses.
The problems in this world are easier,
To face than the ones in
Mine.
Jericho, Vermont
