by Joe Bisicchia

My father had built the bookcase,
the oak of old throwaway pews.

O, that I may forever appreciate 
my aged feet to every new leaf, 
this art I have been bequeathed,
the seed upon seed upon seed,
this precious century and onward,
ancient and new,
the life of a family tree.

O good Lord, of your beam,
You have crisscrossed wood, 
and with unfathomable mercy
rejoin still the splintered again.

And suddenly sun is upon the shelf, 
upon the books of self-help.
One by one they lean like selves,
like adoring fans toward the upright. 
Holy Book is here for the taking,
ever beginning in the grain.

---

Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared spiritual dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, he has written four published collections of poetry, the latest being December 26 to Christmas, published by Cyberwit. He also has written well over two hundred individual works that have been published in over one hundred publications. His website is www.widewide.world.

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