An Old Book

Dust upon the old book.
A silken ribbon marking a page,
to which handwritten words professed heart,
in calligrapher's pen,
of love,
in a forgotten age.

Each page fragile.
A leaf nearing the end of Autumn, crisp and breaking.
A tired and worn binding of soft leather,
tied to give it strength,
of love,
in the making.

Each word soft.
Emotions long held in devoted feeling.
A soul, now still holding a soul,
as each word composed in thought,
of love,
in the healing.

Such a book, of how the emotion travels,
carried through years somehow finding its way,
into another's heart,
another soul,
of love,
in the concept of present day.

Upon the shelf, the book placed,
within reach, a reference to guide,
and long after,
a soul, still holding a soul,
will pass it forth,
of love,
as the truest of loves, has never died.