For the mother and father who read to me, for the library card I remember signing the very first time before I could even write my last name, for the people I’ve met who loved books as much I do, for the places I’ve been and continue to go in the pages of a book. Nothing more magical than a library.
In the Library
by Charles Simic
for Octavio
There’s a book called
“A Dictionary of Angels.”
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered
The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.
Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.
She’s very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.
Hey, great poem… thanks for that… Miss Jones and the quiet angels and gods.
Regards