Book Shelf

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I have my understandings.
They look like metaphors that I keep on the bookshelf.
I would like to say that I love them,
that I am always in love with them,
but the truth is that only when I pull them down and read them
do I love them, and that is when they are alive.
How much can I pull down at once and live through?
Only all of it all at once.
Nothing special in how I measure it,
no special technique to which I am inclined
to lower the volumes bringing goodness and the happiness
into my eager lap.
Oh, the pages may flip quickly past me,
as I watch in serenity and delight.
Today may be a hundred,
yesterday may have seen ten thousand.
This day though, this now,
they may all come to me at once
and I will be filled with their glowing presence.
Why keep a shelf? Why bother storing understanding?
It must be different than storing knowledge.
Look at how calm I become,
even when only a little is opened to me.

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