Public Library

 

The rain came down

on my bent head,

running in leather-bound streams

down my face—

my baby hairs,

damp as goose down—

rivulets

to my medieval gown,

water with its embroidery,

as I ducked into the library.

 

My soul contracted,

then stood straight as a spine,

in silvery-gray bark

of European beech—

peopling the ravines

of Cornwall like ornate stacks,

anchoring the land with ladders;

on my lower branches

the long, broad crenate leaves

remained glued until spring,

a narrative marcescence,

but I am didactic to my veins.

 

My wise eyes

watch the blood moon,

my ombudsmen kiss the sun—

shadowed in catkins—

and branch after branch are

a collection

in this antique library of botany

where veteran fiction salutes

the fall in rich russet brown,

and copper leaves flash brilliantly

at dark academia.

Emily Isaacson