Our books gathered us, called us each,
Their curled joy-worn pages dancing
With flickering orange yellow light at the
Communal fire. “We are here.” They knit
Woolen tales of men, of women, of fierce
Eternal battles, gods, the triumph of Old
words, spells and incantations to salve
Souls broken into these dangling dense
Narratives. There on its river the boy
And man found their shared selves in its
Pages, the orderless everything once
Barricading an other now fallen away,
The writer’s ink animating each well.
“It is a truth, universally acknowledged,”
And in its sojourn to the circle’s center
It bore aloft the dreams and determinations
Of the gathered, held fast, clasped tightly to
Widening strivings, into the breach, the battle
Now joined, a fierce rising dream. In this
Hearing came pleasured gasps, grim nods
Of recognition in the telling. Through their
Sustained devotion the beats were now as
One. “Once more unto the breach.” Buckler.
Breastplate. Sword. The round table, each
A knight. Have you read these, their power
Is legion. Take now your rest ’til next meet.
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