Something about the weight of it.
It settles so well in my hands,
appealing to my sense of touch.
The warmth of the cover,
crisp edges sliding across my thumb
as I fan.
The soft scraping sound of the sheets,
like a tree branch brushing against the window,
playing hide and seek with the moon
casting shadows on my equilibrium
as they are cast across the room.
As I am enchanted
by the bending of the spine,
the unfolding of wings as a butterfly.
That which was cocooned
in another’s chrysalis mind
to take flight in the
this imagination of mine.
M. Zane McClellan
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