They were phantom books

the ones lost when screens

became the way we called

our information to mind

 

The books that fell through

that unknowable space between

space where names in drawers

once told us stories

 

Now, the click clack tap of keys

beneath our fingertips call

what we need into being

once it was the rasp of wood

 

A living thing, wood. Cut and sawn

it still breathes out a forest home

even years later, when small cards

on metal spindles fill its belly

 

Even when I dream of cubbies

holding the world’s secrets safe

cradled within once-living heartwood

tangible   as real as ancient wisdoms

 

But the feathering of air whispers

it holds secrets too   floating on thermals

like dreaming birds   their wings outstretched

reaching backwards into time   like phantoms