The bookmarks sprung up
in odd arrangements on the shelf,
like so many weeds in a garden.
I pulled them a couple of months ago,
All of them.
In part to put out of mind
the sight of unfinished business.
But also to put to rights
the little irritations some books
might endure of a distracted thinker.
Sure, I purposely lost my place,
but is place a deterrent of getting
lost in thought?
Is turning the last page a
guarantee of closing the book
forever?
Apparently not, for the volumes
in the case are still there,
like a well-tended garden,
waiting for thoughts to be taken.
Look closely at the image…how easily the weeds pop up like my own bookcase!
Gerald the Writer 
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