The Initiation to Literature

When I was young, about 8 or so
I went to the public library.
I wandered from the corner of pop-up books
into the cold shelves of type.
The stacks and isles of tree bound books outstanded me,
swallowed my small body,
as I peered up at all those literary giants,
rows and rows.

I picked a book, once seen by film
(perhaps a comfort in knowing its beginnings and ends?)
I opened its plain exterior,
and read it cover to cover.

In my mind, the character had my fathers face,
the eyes of my best friend,
the crackling laughter of my uncle.
I grew to see him perfectly assembled
though not at all--
like a dream, where images fracture under a white light
and while distorted, still feel
completely visible.

This life, this book,
extracted from our own imaginations,
limited to the tiniest seed of expertise,
would only grow into the rich mental flow
its direction a wanderers dream.

Those authors pushed us to fantasize,
to dream consciously
about a place we had never seen,
but may someday,
and this wonder has lingered ever since
my initiation to literature.