I held it like an infant,
my hip sharing the weight
of the days that passed through it--
this fossil planted in our bedrock;
of the revolution that passed over it
like cool fog over a southern riverbank--
unaffecting its centurial calm.
I held it like an urn,
the remains of a fallen star--
that discusses the origin of Tom,
that philosphizes Finn,
that just might have their maps of the Mighty.
I caught myself constantly looking back
to ensure nothing spilled out.
"The man who does not read good books has no advantage
over the man who can't read them." ~Mark Twain
