There is something deliciously tactile about a book that pleases all of my senses.
I revel in the process of enjoying each one I choose to possess.
Running my hands across the cover,
I feel its strength as its outer skin binds together all of its wonders.
Slowly I open it as if it were a great treasure box,
For held within its shell is a gift from an unselfish giver.
I fan its pages close to my face and inhale its true essence.
My favorite among the many are the special ones written for the innocent.
Simply spoken words that have easy meaning,
With color filled images that feed the eye of the soul.
Together they embrace me as they draw me in deeper with the turn of each enchanting page.
As a child I loved to visit the place where books are housed.
I craved the stilling hush that was expected and could always be counted upon.
This serene place fed my need for peace and order,
And gave my mind an escape from its endless worries.
In this quiet place I could escape into whatever world I chose by the way of the book,
For behind each cover was a journey for the mind.
I have recreated this ambiance in the corner of my tiny home.
There I enjoy the books that I have singled out to call my own,
Carefully chosen each one to the last for the feeling and nourishment it has to offer.
Tucked among the many are the special books,
That have been received as a gift within a gift,
Special treasures to delight in over and again.
At the end of each journey I close the cover and sit it back upon the shelf,
Content in the knowledge that I may return at will,
To the love of the book.
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