Books and my father

I remember how my father smoothed a book, Opening it carefully to show us how, A few pages at the front, then a few in back The way to open a new book Like something rare and delicate We must treat gently We couldn't open it up rudely and break its back Or lay it down in the pages of the grass. At Sagamore he put his books on the arms of the old Morris chair And held one like a child as he lay back comfortably to read.

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