My Store Of Books Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

This poem's title pulled me in immediately. I am sitting at my desk now with a row of six bookcases - with my collected books carefully organized. It is a static, preserved, cherished collection, mostly literature, then history, philosophy, Hermetica, et alia. I spend much time browsing through them, jotting down notes, sampling a dozen passages in different titles. (My intro has swelled and crowded out this space.) I can't tell from your poem how you relate to your books. It almost seems that you have transcended them and are biding farewell. Can that be true?