The sounds of footsteps echo as I walk
Or if I wish, they quietly may fade
If, in no hurry, I, like a sick clock
Slowly tread o’er tracks others have made.
And I delight in music as it comes,
The sounds straining o’er traffic in my ears,
But as each time I try to sing along,
When fading traffic hum
At last is done, and music, I can hear
Again, I find my voice matches the song.
When a new book is opened and the smell
Of musty pages comes like memories,
And ghosts of the past rise up in a swell
To share their secrets and their effigies:
Those characters, those shades of Ev’ryman
That whisper magic only we can hear,
Reminding us there’s more than rinse-repeat,
And if we think we can,
We might yet rise to conquer every fear,
To find ourselves exploring some new street.
Or when a mouth finds a new mouth to kiss,
That first exploring, hesitating touch
When everything and nothing seems amiss,
And parting is an act that takes too much;
It turns into an exercise in will
As fingers trace fresh skin they’ve never felt
And never satisfied with one last look,
The lovers feel their thrill
As making one another croon and melt,
They change, like magic, and become the book