A Book Lies Open

Michael C. Paul

A book lies open where the candle died,
hot drops of wax upon the knotty wood,
a gray ribbon of smoke drifts lazily
and slightly shimmers in the silver light
cast by the moon beyond the misted pane. 

A margin note half-scrawled in spattered ink,
my gold-tipped pen left in the old inkstand;
hand-written pages spread beneath the book,
crossed out, rewritten, then crossed out again.
The cat purrs softly in the nearby chair.

The church bell chimes an early morning hour,
that echoes through the valley down below.
A train sighs once and rattles past the trees
across the river by the old bookshop,
while autumn leaves applaud the shining moon.

I leave the empty tea cup on my desk,
perch my glasses atop the mantlepiece
next to the small Anubis statuette,
then tuck the cat up underneath my arm
and close the door and shuffle off to bed.

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Michael Paul
Michael C. Paul is a writer, illustrator, and historian who lives in Northern Virginia with his wife, daughter, and stepson.