Inner Bark of Tree

I’m Salem Church—on Salem Church the road—

A branch within a larger library.

I am librarious, a horde, a lode,

A “liber,” Latin’s inner bark of tree.

I’m storehouse, shop, and chest—cache of caprice.

I’m leaf and rind—to peel and strip—a constant

Spring and a fall of books. I swell, increase,

New books my blooms. I chatter, rattle on, rant

On, rustle on. My sheaves are gathered, taken

Away, checked out. I shiver, shelves so bare

And empty, tapped. I’m overdue with grief

until returns return. I’m reawakened.

Prodigal books are shelved despite their wear

And I rejoice with each returning leaf.