My mother’s house is packed with books
The paper garden of my thought.
Mysteries, crime, adventure tales,
Poetic tomes, the facts of war.
I know them like a loved friend’s face,
Their covers and each lettered line.
I know the stains, the tears, the wear,
The marks that take me back in time.
So long ago I picked them up,
Devoured each chapter, phrase and word,
Cocooned within that special place,
My private and imagined world.
Quite deaf to any outside sound,
Unknowing of the turn of tide.
Entranced by other people’s words,
Inspiring me to try to write.
Those stories now are written large,
A part of me, beyond all doubt.
My story too is written there,
On pages in my mother’s house.