The Page

The book’s page glimmers like a leaf
That’s newly bloomed in life,
Released in warmth from nature’s sheath,
An island far from strife.
A leaf that gently shows its clime –
Its subtle mystery
Of words, of veins, of things sublime,
Such sights that piercing see,
So that it might reveal the world –
Its dense and clouded face
Distilled, reflected, lit, unswirled,
A yearning, straightening maze.
And then one day its word-shown view
Is read and in the past,
And so in past in future too,
This wind-turned, guiding mast.


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