climbing high, holding tight.
My structure surrendering
to the whim of her wisteria.
In an attempt to soak up everything that came before me,
browsing bookshelves near bed linens and
curling up with the History, the Science, the Poetry
of a world that didn't want me, until now.
But sleep cannot wait for
the retreat of Napolen from Russia,
the thermodynamics of shifting tectonic plates,
the free verse of Walt Whitman.
I awake from dreams,
the snatch of precious hours
from vehement library desires,
panic stricken by the prospect
of how little time I have left
to account for Time.
History will eventually claim me.
Science will certainly disregard me.
Poetry will surely define me.
with everything else that has come and gone,
in the stacks.