Books In Dusty Solitude Poem by John Rickell

I don't know what to make of it
do not understand; when there's time
I'll sit and think, seek pages
on library shelves made years ago,
answers hid somewhere, cramped
deep in dusty solitude, out of reach.
There's wood in the garden shed
enough to make a ladder,
To reach the high most shelf,
its sound, no worms, no mold;
it'll take some time.....there is enough
On the way I'll learn a lot
what tools to use and care to take
hand down a book, then if I find.........
what shall I make of it?