The lamp extends the usable hours of my day
casts a warm yellow glow, a circle of focus
around my favourite chair
and the little round table that holds
my Tower of Books
sometimes neat with all the spines even—
more often raggedy, twisting, the corners
of each book offset from the one below it.
It spotlights my one-ness
my me-ness, this quietude.
Under how many circles of light have I sat,
in how many chairs, during how many
evenings long past sunset
consuming words or watching them pour
from pen to paper,
my word factory alive after dark.
In lamplight I avoid common accidents of life,
like banging a table leg or
or unravelling by catching a thread
on an unseen thought.
I grasp the corner of a book from the pile,
tug gently, enter a world where words live,
pull me in, let me out.