The wooden leaves smell like attic timbers - juicy, yellow old beams. I run my thumb along their edges and they part and press together again like eyelashes rooted in its spine. It is a small dead bird in my hand. Its paper generates feather-warmth on my palm. It is a record of life, a ledger; its image; its shadow fallen till its sun sets. But like petrified resin, warm amber, it will last far longer than green leaves and wafer shoulder blades. It will sit sheltered on shelves and be turned lovingly in many momentary hands. The essence it indicates will be soaked up by passing hearts. And maybe I'm not thinking of an old book anymore.
