I came across a bookmark hidden, thought
I, “Who was the owner?” For Avon’s bard
had reached his hand to futured reader, caught
those eyes, with ghosted past of Man’s regard.

The tome was large, I checked on further, drawn
by curiosity; Sydney’s sonnets,
Tennyson’s plays, thin taste of Keats; gone,
yet—these writes of Masters were honor's debts,

the patterned reasons poets pay mind’s cost;
true love of words. As I progressed, I laid
my bookmarks, without disturbing old; Frost
and Pope, and Frost, again--where trees don't fade...

Would there come a time hands negated needs
to mark a stop that pleases me? Like weeds?

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
4/30/04 © Copyright

When I took the poetry book back to the library, I showed the assistant librarian the old bookmarks of torn computer paper. I tried to explain how they affected me, how beautiful I thought they were to be placed with such care and thought, and how I placed my own bookmarks at my favorite poems with torn pink paper, but before I could, she took the book from me and proceeded to remove all the bookmarks...somehow crushing something I had felt was special and precious. I wrote this piece before the bookmarks were removed like they were noxious weeds.