The bookmarks sprung up

in odd arrangements on the shelf,

like so many weeds in a garden.

I pulled them a couple of months ago,

All of them.

In part to put out of mind

the sight of unfinished business.

But also to put to rights

the little irritations some books

might endure of a distracted thinker.

Sure, I purposely lost my place,

but is place a deterrent of getting

lost in thought?

Is turning the last page a

guarantee of closing the book

forever?

Apparently not, for the volumes

in the case are still there,

like a well-tended garden,

waiting for thoughts to be taken.

Look closely at the image…how easily the weeds pop up like my own bookcase!

The books are listing on the shelf.

Pock marks left, where authors, dead and alive,

moved over to my coffee table.

Then there are the bookmarks

tucked in many pages like floss

reminding me there’s something,

some thought waiting to get unstuck,

dredged up between ideas

old and new and from old.

“Can one, by thinking, add any height

to his stature?”

It’s time to shelve and disheveled,

Clear the queue.

Reset the open-faced bindings.

Mind the store,

store the minds,

and stand the titles at attention.

Once again, my books and poetry

protect me, slipping silently

back into place.