Tonight I'm browsing the "Selected Poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson" - "Isaac and Archibald", probably my favorite poem. I've always had an affinity for old men - I often think of old men I've known, the unplumbed depth of their meaningful silence. When E.A.R. writes of the "small boy's adhesiveness / To competent old age", I recognize the feeling.
This copy of the book is secondhand. It's been studied; the margins have penciled notations, a few of the stronger assertions in ink. I like to draw my own meanings from the poems, but take pleasure in the insights left behind. From time to time I add my own marginalia to the pages. I imagine this book making its way to others. I want to write something profound, but settle for a few smiley faces.
on the library steps
the blowing leaves
of a book