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At Hartfield Books

by Ann Hart

There are enchantments here
             And when I say here I mean trapped

                                     Between covers, woven into pages

Laid out - black on white
             Waiting to be released

                                     To hover in our heads

If that sounds like birds I mean birds
             I mean trees too, and hives of bees

                                     Heroes and rogues and wizards

I mean fireflies and fishing flies
             And a pipe organ forsaken on a wagon train's trail

                                     When I say enchantments

I mean stories to fill a warm summer night
             And a lazy Sunday afternoon

                                     To be savored & delighted in

To be carried like identical touchstones
             Different in each pocket

                                     Though the words may be the same

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