A book is like a lighted
candle . . .
It casts its inner glow a
certain sphere
A certain circle in its
inner giving of itself
Its pages turned: its wax
consumed
From its bright beginning
It shines unto its end the same
It has no knowledge of where it might abide
Only of the light it
shines inside, within its wick
The truth it finds in me which mirrors it
Poem from a Sequence:
A Rain of Booklight
Part 1 # 16
Part 1 # 16
(c) Judith Evans Deverell, 2014
The Bookmark Project
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