Her face still haunts, even though
the image is a girl just half my age.
There is a place my spirit still lingers.
A place that is beginning to fade
from existence. It is a land of dead things
where trees go after being chopped,
processed and preserved. It smells
of mild decay, old wood, dirt and filtered air.
For a time it was my sanctuary.
It was a place I could lock myself away
from the responsibilities of the everyday.
It was the place I saw her for the first time
and it was she that caused me to linger.
For days I would sit and read as Quixote
watching from afar until I could not stand it
and leave. In the end, I closed one last book,
walked the mahogany rows of Dewy Decimals
and left through the double doors.
I look back more often than I like to admit
and I still see her smiling as she wanders
the rows that hold a memory of trees.