by Marie Bowers
The shelf is lined with assorted books,
Each one with a separate look.
Their bindings form a perfect edge,
With words inside that never hedge.
A favorite resides in this line,
To pick it out open your eyes.
The binding is frayed, the pages are used,
“This book is chosen often”, someone might muse.
Pulled from it’s home the work is scrutinized,
Worn with age – it cannot be identified.
The invader grows restless in his hunt for a name,
The simplest solution: open and turn the page.
A solution not seen by those that are blind,
Certain in the cover the mystery is defined.
Let them search, let them guess,
Perhaps for this that solution is best.
“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.”
For if you do, a name is all that you shall discover.