This was read poem on NPR's morning edition yesterday 10/13/2014. It is a slice of humanity, sweet and bitter, true in experience yet perhaps not fully true in reality. Please forgive my brevity. I rather enjoy avoiding analysis paralysis. I much prefer a silent nod to a universal truth. Yet even more so, what I relish, is breaking the boundary of human obsolescence; which is an ongoing process for those who seek it.
How lovely, to be lost as you are now in someone else's thoughts an imagined world of witchcraft, wizardry and clans that takes you in so utterly all the ceaseless background noise of life's insistent pull and drag soon fades and you are left, a young boy captured in attention's undivided daze, as I was once when books defined a world no trouble could yet penetrate or others spoil, or regret stain, when, between covers, under covers, all is safe and sure and each Odysseus makes it home again and every transformation is to bird or bush or to a star atwinkle in some firmament of light, or to a club that lets you, and all others, in. Oh, how I wish for you that life may let you turn and turn these pages, in whose spell time is frozen, as is pain and fright and loss before you're destined to be lost again in that disordered and distressing book your life will write for you and cannot change.