Youth Meets Age

The old pages

perfume the basement with age,

Brown on the edges,

crumbling at the touch,

the paper holds more than calculated ink.

The water heater whistles

as I stand there staring.

Some light swims in from the underground window

and it dances with the dust particles which I breathe.

My skin erases the filmy age

when my fingertips kiss the cracked leather binding.

My eyes feast on the newfound antiquities

waiting for me in my grandfather’s basement.