If you don’t already know, I like books. Seriously, though. When it comes to traveling, I always bring at least five books with me—a collection of poetry, two fiction novels, my journal, and my Bible.
Then there’s books strewn throughout my house. I may call my room the library, because it has most bookshelves and I’m in charge of organizing and dusting them all, but that’s not where the books I’m currently reading spend their time. Sometimes they sit on the couch, on the windowsill, on the stairs, in my purse. They’re all over.
“A room without books is like a body without a soul.” –Marcus Tullius Cicero
In recognition of all this idea, I decided to write a poem that combines it with the symbol of the military brat. We’re often referred to as dandelions—hardy, scattered across the world, and can put down roots anywhere.
Books are strewn from floor-to-floor,
collected in corners and atop coffee tables
scattered from the shelves and minds
from across the world,
like seeds scattered in the wind.
Light reads blow away—dancing as they go—
to find another home, but the occasional book
that makes one stop, and think,
and breathe in the scent of the earth,
the damp air foretelling rain,
that pages of this life—
these books take root
in the otherwise hardened patio of the mind.
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Let’s chat! What did you think of this poem? What’s the average number of books you tend to travel with? How many books are scattered across your house?
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