Enthralled

A shelf on the wall more rich with tomes
Than clouds in a stormy sky.
I reach a hand to the topmost shelf,
Where the dust retracts with a sigh.

My fingers find what they're looking for
And they grasp the worn leather with care.
As the hand comes back down to its master,
Years of dust float like smoke through the air.

Handling it like a relic of gods,
Like an infant to take its first breath,
I cradle the delicate tome in my palms
And press it with care to my chest.

It rests there against me; a weight gladly borne,
As I make my way back to the fire.
The flames crackle with life as they chew up the wood
In a dance never destined to tire.

I deny the flame of the pleasure it'd have
In eating the jewel in my hands,
And sit in a chair just as worn as my book,
Away from the hearth's joyful band.

I curl myself up into a tight ball,
Hugging my legs to my chest,
And I hold the book out against my knees
Like an egg tucked away in its nest.

A shiver runs down my bowed-over spine
As the book opens wide with a crack.
I smile for I know it isn't a chill,
But excitement that moves through my back.

The time-weathered pages seem glad to be turned
Far from where they'd been forced to reside.
I delight in each word on the pages before me,
Devouring the story inside.