Poetry With Hart

I didn’t know
what I was walking into when
I wandered inside that bookstore
on that spring cherry blossom day.

The vellichor, the taste, the smell
the ink and pages, leather binding bliss
sunlight’s kiss hits differently the day before
you never truly see daylight again.

I remember I was thinking of the upcoming
summer’s plays, a retinue of contemporary art
a lark the Shepherd of the town put on.
The warmth, the quiet, the hardwood floors

I adored it all, as I perused the shelves
deep dive delved into the depths
with tome at hand, crouching at first,
then retiring to the nearest armchair.

It was there I first noticed the silence,
the cashier must have gone somewhere
reshelving upstairs or the like,
it must’ve been a slow day after all.

I eagerly turned back to my book,
hours must’ve gone by, I never
really gave the clock a second look.
What day was it? Must’ve been a weekday.

I paused the turning of pages
when the smell of pumpkin spice
overpowered me for a second,
with the sudden sharp chill in the air

a red maple leaf slipped by my feet.
How did it fall there? I wondered
as I palmed it, turning it in my hands
delighting in the texture of its points.

I used it as my bookmark as I went to stand,
body aching from exertion of sitting too long.
I abandoned it there on the plush armchair
I thought I heard a voice coming from upstairs

faint at first, the lilt, then the cadence
of a young woman afraid.
I hurried up the stairs, tripping, slipping slowly
then gaining momentum, footsteps now bold.

I thought, it must’ve been the cashier,
perhaps she slipped and hurt herself.
After all, the chill had turned downright cold
as I rounded the bend at the top of the stair

there was frost on the windows.
No woman in sight, piles of abandoned books
Idle by the icy glass. Curious
I reached for one, “A Winter’s Tale”, it read.

The first page was a face sketched
beautifully, the eyes so pleading, lifelike.
The second page was blank, heart sank
just a moment until it started filling up with ink.

Suddenly difficult to blink
Suddenly hard to think
Suddenly shrinking down to nothing
But pen and ink.

*

Moral of the story:

If you ever see a book abandoned
somewhere on an armchair
with a red leaf as a bookmark…
BUYER BEWARE.