Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Sunday Wordle 321




The Weary Modern Reader

I live in the pretense that time
is a revolving glass-door.
Childhood is a route
my mind often takes,
bulk of my younger days
folded between favorite
pages of storybooks.
There is no dearth of
good stories these days,
perhaps it's possible that
the magic of reading
has lost it's essence.
I remember dusty shelves
and little old, gray ladies
with bent arthritic fingers
in the school library,
all those individual worlds
so beckoning to me.
The true light of climax
and conflict has been exchanged
for the fake bulbs
of bright, shiny telephone screens.
I find it a challenge to
compromise my imagination
for the quick-suede fashions
of movies and TV.
Like a spoke-wheel whose
reels have tangled into rust
with time, moving backward
seems more natural to me.
I wish to jump across the
barrier of calendar-blocks
and stiff-black dates made
permanent by each receding day.
Somewhere before all this formality
there's a perfect fall evening;
behind all these present pages,
there are burnt-orange autumn leaves
circling my ten-year-old ankles;
an other-world I crawl into,
sun-yellow and bathed in
the brand-new light of innocence.
Always, I am shocked at the return
to common-day dirge.
Give me my grandmother's
garden chores and the warm,
brown twilight glow before winter.
Give me vintage library shelves
full of quirky small-town names
and captivating mysteries
while I sip sweet tea and somewhere
a candle burns, timelessly.


Created for a writing prompt at Sunday Whirl.








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