Poetry

Holding a Book in Your Hand

Holding a book in your hands is heaven it has mass, it has heft, it is not pixel-ated, it does not byte. Three times has it grown— from a seed between earth and sky, from somebody’s mind and eye, and now into yours, freely given, nothing asked but connection. Read your first book and you’re a hero; read two, you’ve become a library and the shelves in your mind, from then on, stretch and hold as long as you live. Books feel so lovely— old hardbacks as soft as moss, or paperbacks glossy with new. They taste good too— watch…

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