Living room decor
crammed with old books,
many read, some to hold
and caress  textural treats,
others to look at and enjoy
antiquated pages, covers,
photographs
arranged in stacks and
various vignettes 
throughout the room,
in place of Christmas trees,
birthday balloons, or other
special occasion decorations.
In one corner, the gold trimmed
pages spilled poetry onto
hardwood floors, cascading like 
the Greasy Creek waterfall of words,
cling like moss to slick rocks,
generate echoes passed the lace
curtains, out the windows,
competition with the songbirds
that found refuge in an old cedar tree.
Some words leapt off the page
tuned to an adagio,
pranced across her vision,
an impala in the moon’s
crested shadow.