I walk by Thoreau,

And give him a little smile,

While he laughs at the self-help book I’m shelving.

“Ha!” he seems to say.

“Why, you can find your “help” in the woods,

Where the fruit of mystery awaits you.”



I give Shakespeare a welcome glance,

As I hold a children’s picture book.

“Yes,” he explains,

“Let their minds become sharp

With the knowledge they discover.

Let their imaginations soar through the depths of life.”



Walt Whitman is contradicting himself

In a dusty corner as the morning light tickles him.

“Your very flesh is a great poem,”

He tells me,

“Marvel in the silent sun

To figure out your poem’s feelings.”



As I turn to leave the quiet sanctuary.

Ray Bradbury calls to me from a distant place,

His voice echoing through the building.

“There are worse crimes then burning books.”

He says,
“One of them is not reading them.”