This book was a form

That wanted my participation,

I could not pass it by.

It took me to spaces

Where I sat and wrote.

I roamed in search of images

And only now begin to see

What the book with empty pages

Wanted all along.

I wander still . . .

Along the streets and avenues

Through galleries and coffee houses,

Past friends and strangers,

Along the river,

Across the harbor . . .

Tempered by Time,

I am no less intense

And the book, worn and tattered,

Still falls open to an empty page.